


Storyteller

by kimberly_a



Category: Peter Pan (2003)
Genre: Aging, Edwardian Period, F/M, Gen, London, Magic, Memory Loss, Neverland, Storytelling, Youth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberly_a/pseuds/kimberly_a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can the story exist without the teller? And can the teller exist without the story? After her return from Neverland, Wendy encounters Peter Pan mysteriously homeless on the streets of Edwardian London 3 years later. How did he get there? And why doesn't he remember her? And what does this have to do with the telling of stories?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who Are You?

**Author's Note:**

> In writing this story, I placed Wendy and Peter's first adventure together (i.e., the events of the film) as having taken place in 1904, the year when J.M. Barrie's play _Peter Pan_ was first performed on the London stage. Therefore, this story is set in Edwardian England, late in the year 1907.

It might be said that the evening on which Wendy Darling's second great adventure began was that of her sixteenth birthday, as she traveled in a carriage down Oxford Street toward a party being held in her honor at the home of her parents.

Wendy was wearing her finest pale blue gown and white gloves, and her lady's maid, Lottie, had fixed her hair in the latest "Gibson Girl" style, piled atop her head and then softened so that it surrounded her face rather like a cloud. Lottie had also laced her corset even more tightly than usual, as would befit a special occasion. Wendy looked very fine indeed. She smiled politely when Aunt Millicent spoke to her.

She was utterly miserable.

Staring out the window of the carriage, Wendy thought how ironic it should be that she would be **visiting** her parents and brothers for her birthday, when the only gift she would wish would be to living with them all once more.

Aunt Millicent's house in St. John's Wood, just near Regent's Park, was very fine, but to Wendy it seemed rather empty. Empty of life, that is, for it was certainly not empty otherwise. Slightly had been sent to boarding school, as Aunt Millicent had rapidly discovered that young boys were far more disruptive than she might have originally thought them to be, and so Aunt Millicent and Wendy lived quite alone, surrounded by an oppression of thick burgundy curtains, cream lace inner curtains (for one set of curtains, it seemed, was not quite sufficient to protect oneself from the dangers that might come through windows), ornate wallpaper designed with chrysanthemums and pomegranates and other various fruits and flowers, hideously uncomfortable settees and ottomans and divans covered in richly-textured antimacassars, displays of wax fruit, wax candles, shells, a rather frighteningly intimidating number of framed photographs of unfamiliar people, useless decorative screens behind which nothing was hidden, large potted palms and aspidistra, and glass cases filled with arrays of pinned butterflies.

Wendy often felt as if she too belonged in one of those glass cases. As if she, too, were a butterfly who had been most untimely pinned.

She would be leaving school this year, as Aunt Millicent insisted it was no longer necessary for a young lady of sixteen. Instead, Wendy would continue her instruction with Aunt Millicent to a greater extent, with the intention of preparing her, of course, for marriage. The thought of leaving school saddened Wendy greatly, for she knew how Aunt Millicent disapproved of books for young ladies. Though Aunt Millicent herself might read novels as much as she liked, she insisted that such fare would only encourage Wendy's disturbingly fanciful imagination.

In truth, Wendy's imagination had become considerably less of a concern under Aunt Millicent's constant guidance. Wendy rarely thought of Neverland anymore, and when she did it caused a pain in her heart that no doctor's purgative could relieve.

On a rare occasion as she lay alone in her bed late at night, however, it must be acknowledged that she did sometimes wish in some small hidden part of her soul that she had stayed with Peter Pan in Neverland, for growing up had not been quite what she expected it to be.

On this particular evening, however, Wendy had no thought of Neverland in her mind. Rather, she was gazing from the carriage window, morosely anticipating her own birthday celebration, knowing full well that her aunt would insist on Wendy giving a dutiful demonstration of the effects of her singing and dancing lessons. She felt rather like a trained monkey, required to perform upon demand.

And so her thoughts were thus unhappily occupied when their carriage came to a stop in the evening crush. The horses pulling many of the carriages surrounding them had been frightened by a passing motor car, and now all movement had ceased until the animals could be calmed.

Out the window, on the twilit street, Wendy happened by chance to see the face of a young man, walking close to their carriage, though his attention was elsewhere. He slouched unhappily, hands shoved into the pockets of his thinly-patched trousers. His face was very dirty, but it still triggered something within Wendy. Something that caused her heart to beat more quickly.

Before she had given any thought to what she was doing, Wendy had opened the door of the carriage and leapt out. "Peter?" she cried, grabbing hold of the young man's arm so that he turned to look at her. "Peter?" His eyes were the same sea-blue she remembered, clear and beautiful in his confused, soot-smeared face.

"Let go!" he insisted, attempting to pull his arm from her grasp. "I don't know you, lady!"

By now, unfortunately, Aunt Millicent had begun screaming, clinging to the side of the carriage and peering out in distress. "Oh! Police! Help!" she shrilled. "Help! My niece is being accosted by a ruffian! Help! Oh, help! Will no one help us?"

An impeccably-dressed gentleman leapt from a nearby carriage to tackle the youth who appeared to be roughly handling and perhaps robbing a very well-dressed young lady, and threw the unwashed young man into a nearby wall before turning around to sweep a protesting Wendy into his arms as if to keep her more safe through his physical protection.

A policeman arrived at a run and grabbed Wendy's supposed attacker, pressing him quite securely against the brick wall and asking, "Are you all right, miss?"

Wendy nodded numbly, struggling feebly in her large rescuer's arms, but the gallant stranger would not release her. "I am quite all right," she insisted, still staring in disbelief at the mysterious young man now in the policeman's custody, "and he did nothing wrong," but to no avail. Neither her supposed rescuer nor the police officer paid her any mind. A young lady, after all, would almost certainly be hysterical in the wake of such a sudden attack, and so her judgment could not be trusted.

Aunt Millicent was now leaning further from the carriage, now that the danger appeared to be gone. "Sir, how can we possibly thank you enough for all you have done for us?"

The tall gentleman smiled charmingly and said, with a vaguely theatrical manner, as if he were quite enamored of his own deep voice, "I'm afraid in the confusion my cab has departed. Might I ride with you lovely ladies a short distance to the home of a patient?"

"Patient?" asked Aunt Millicent, blushing delightedly at the word "lovely" and apparently uncaring of Wendy's undignified position in the man's arms.

The gentleman deposited Wendy safely in the carriage and then stood such that he was entirely blocking her view of the dirty young man still occupying her thoughts. Was it Peter? Could it be? Why did he not know her? What was he doing here? It was all terribly strange and perplexing.

Apparently Aunt Millicent and the man had reached some agreement while Wendy was not listening, for he climbed into the carriage and rode with them as they continued on their way toward the Darlings' home.

"My name is Dr. Carew," the dashing stranger explained with another deliberately charming smile, simultaneously handing his card to Aunt Millicent with a bit of a flourish. "I am more than glad to have been able to be of service."

Wendy craned her neck in a desperate effort to catch another glimpse of the strange boy as they pulled away, but other carriages now blocked her view.

And as the well-appointed carriage drove away to carry its passengers toward their very elegant evening plans, an unnamed policeman gave a mysterious and dirty young man a very sound beating before walking away, leaving the confused and mistreated fellow lying bleeding in the street.

* * *

The party itself was quite lovely of course, for Wendy rarely saw her brothers anymore, though St. John's Wood was not so very far from Bloomsbury. Aunt Millicent seemed to feel that noisy young boys were not appropriate company for a proper young lady. Talking with them at the party was therefore a rare and precious treat.

Aunt Millicent had also, of course, invited several very appropriate young men and women of the best society. Wendy did not know many of them, but was expected to be pleasant and grateful that they had come.

There was tea and punch and cakes, and Mother played the piano while everyone danced. Though Aunt Millicent had urged Wendy in advance that she should dance only with the eligible young men in attendance, Wendy chose in some small measure of rebellion to dance the first dance with Nibs, which caused that young man to become quite puffed up with his own importance. In truth, he had nursed something of an attachment to Wendy for some time, though he knew that Aunt Millicent would never consider him a suitable match.

After dancing with Nibs, and then John, and then Tootles, Wendy was discreetly pulled aside by Aunt Millicent, who primly instructed her to spend the rest of the party dancing with the eligible young gentlemen whom Aunt Millicent had invited, and do no more of this insolent dancing with her brothers. Wendy nodded unhappily, and re-entered the drawing room.

Mother happened to turn at that moment and ask Wendy, "Would you like to sing a song, dear? You do have such a lovely voice since you began training with your aunt." Mother smiled, so that it seemed a genuine compliment, but to Wendy it felt still like a prison. Knowing her place, however, she smiled and nodded, stepping forward to stand beside the piano.

As Mother began to play a familiar and popular tune, Wendy sang in a bright soprano:

_Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,_  
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?  
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,  
Before you agonize them in farewell,  
Before you agonize them in farewell?  
  
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,  
Where are you now?  
Where are you now?  
---  
  
The song's lyrics reminded her of her time in Neverland with Peter and the sadness of their parting, and so as she sang, Wendy thought once more of the young man she had seen on the street. He had looked so very much like Peter Pan! She found herself suddenly thinking of Peter more than she had done in a very long time, wondering what had become of him and if he might truly be in London for some mysterious reason.

But when her song was done, Wendy was called once more to behave as a proper lady would do, and to dance and make conversation with her guests. She had little more time for thought.

Though she warmly directed others to the refreshments her parents had provided, Wendy herself took neither food nor drink. She had eaten some small amount before leaving Aunt Millicent's house, and her aunt had insisted, as ever, that a true lady does not have a good appetite, just as she does not leap about with great energy. A true lady is quiet and still, eating little and taking no exercise aside from the occasional walk through the park, where one might be seen to advantage.

On this diet of little food or exercise, Wendy had grown from a robust young girl to a rather delicate young woman. Her skin was so pale as to be translucent, which Aunt Millicent said was one of her best features. She sometimes found herself out of breath, though whether that was lack of exercise or the tightness of her corset was not entirely clear.

Growing up was proving to be rather a trial, if the truth be known. But she no longer had a choice.

Wendy was once again jolted from her private reveries by her brothers clamoring for a story. "Please do tell a story, Wendy!" "Just one!" "Just a little one!" "Just a **very** little one!" "A story about Peter!" "A story about pirates!" They really were making quite a din, and the more elegant party guests were looking rather repulsed by the coarseness of it all, and so Mother and Father shushed the boys gently.

Glancing Aunt Millicent's way, Wendy saw her disapproving glare, accompanied by her tight headshake of refusal. Turning once more toward her brothers, Wendy said gently, and not entirely untruthfully, "I have no stories to tell tonight, boys. I'm sorry." The boys moaned and sighed and made other disappointed noises, but even they were soon silenced by Aunt Millicent's sour face.

Even still, it must be admitted that even upon their best behavior and even in the face of Aunt Millicent's disapproval, the boys were not entirely well-behaved, and in fact one of the twins nearly set fire to the tablecloth, though that unfortunate young fellow was snatched up before any real damage had been done and then banished upstairs to the nursery for the remainder of the evening, which was not so very long afterward. The Darling household was not the best of locations for a dignified gathering of young society people.

All of the elegant young ladies and gentleman said their very elegant good-byes, and then Wendy exchanged many hugs and kisses with the members of her family, and before she knew it Wendy was once more in her very elegant bedroom back in St. John's Wood, having her very elegant clothing and hairstyle undone by Lottie.

"Did you like the party, Miss?" asked Lottie as she unlaced Wendy's corset.

"It was fine," Wendy replied with no enthusiasm and no inflection. She had no more to say. What more **was** there to say?

For Wendy had gone so very long without telling stories that she had quite lost her skill. In Aunt Millicent's diligence to ensure that Wendy did not become an unmarriagable novelist, she had stifled Wendy's every storytelling outlet. Even Wendy's dreams had become boring affairs, full of embroidery and tapestry work, piano lessons and visits to Aunt Millicent's very elegant acquaintances. She had lost her ability to imagine.

But on this evening, Wendy found some tiny, lonely spark struggling to light once more in her long unused imagination. For she was certain that the young man on the street had been Peter Pan. She was utterly convinced. And what might have brought Peter Pan to such a sorry state was quite unimaginable. Whatever it was, it must have been quite horrible.

* * *

That night, in her soft, curtained bed, Wendy dreamt she was free of tightly-laced corsets, free of pristine white gloves, free of well-meaning aunts, free of embroidery and tapestry and piano lessons. She dreamt that she had at long last found Peter Pan again, but she was pulled from his arms not by a charming slick-haired doctor, but rather by a charming wild-haired pirate.

That night, for the first time in years, Wendy dreamt of Neverland.


	2. Who Are You?

The next day, when Wendy left school, she did not return to Aunt Millicent's home as usual. Instead, she went to the section of Oxford Street where she had seen the young man who looked so much like Peter. The sidewalks were dirty, running with substances Wendy could not even begin to identify, nor did she wish to. The smell was unpleasant in the extreme.

Wendy could not stay long, lest her aunt notice her absence, but she walked briskly for a few minutes, looking about her with urgent interest. She saw many men with dirtied faces, but none had sea-blue eyes.

Disappointed, Wendy climbed once more into Aunt Millicent's carriage and returned to the house.

* * *

After dinner, Wendy and Aunt Millicent sat quietly in the darkly oppressive sitting room, each working on tapestry designs for pillows. How many tapestried pillows one could possibly need, Wendy had no idea. But apparently she and her aunt were going to make a brave attempt to find out.

They spoke little during such evenings, the clock on the mantle most often ticking loudly in the silence, but Aunt Millicent did expect to hear some small bits of news about Wendy's day.

"Kitty Eliot has been having great problems with her embroidery," lied Wendy hesitantly, staring intently at her needlework while telling her first story in more than two years' time. "I ... I thought I might help her with it, as you have taught me so very well, Aunt."

Aunt Millicent, always susceptible to flattery, smiled magnanimously and nodded. "If you want to help Miss Kitty Eliot with her embroidery, I think it a fine idea." Feeling content that her charge was showing such interest in the homely arts, as well as forming a potentially advantageous friendship, Aunt Millicent generously suggested, "Spend as much time with her as you like, dear."

Wendy smiled a secret smile as she worked the tapestry in her lap. Let Aunt Millicent think what she would ... Wendy had just obtained for herself some small amount of freedom. Freedom to search for Peter.

* * *

And so Wendy returned to Oxford Street after school the following day. And then the day after that. And then every day after school for four more days, asking questions of everyone she met, but none knew of the boy she was seeking. Or they were afraid to speak to such a well-dressed young lady.

It was after more than a week's searching that Wendy at long last saw the face that had been haunting her dreams since she'd seen him on the night of her birthday. But she did not see the young man as she had expected to. Instead, she saw a figure huddled in a heap against a wall, his shirtless neck and shoulders visible through the tears in his thin jacket. He wore neither shoes nor stockings, and on his head was a threadbare cloth cap.

Wendy gathered her skirts in her hands and knelt near the young man who looked so like Peter Pan, though grown pale and gaunt with hunger. His eyes were large as he looked at her, but then suddenly he flinched in recognition.

"Get away from me, you!" he insisted bitterly. "I'm not getting beaten by those damn police because of you again!"

Wendy raised her hands in placation, her skirts thereby trailing in the dirt upon the ground. "I mean you no harm," she insisted firmly. "I want only to help you, Peter."

Sitting up in a rather defensive posture, the young fellow asked, "Why do you call me that?"

Wendy bit her lip and tilted her head to look more closely at his face. It **was** Peter! She was **sure** it was! She would never forget that dear, dear face. She put all of her certainty into her voice when she replied, "I call you 'Peter' because it is your name."

Frowning in distrustful curiosity, the young man offered, "People here call me 'Jack'."

Wendy frowned in turn, then asked with a slight raising of her chin, "Do you mind if I continue to call you 'Peter'?"

Shaking his head with a bit of a smile, impressed with the lady's gumption, the young man said, "If you wish it."

Wendy's eyes grew very wide at the familiar words and a grin spread across her face. "Oh, Peter!" she exclaimed, reaching forward to take his hands in hers. "I knew it was you!"

But Jack pulled quickly away from her, watching her now through narrowed eyes. "What are you talking about? Do I know you?"

Wendy realized that she had behaved perhaps somewhat too impulsively, for something very strange was still afoot. Why did Peter not remember her? And what was he doing here? These were questions she had asked herself previously, but when faced with the subject of her musings, they became only more urgent.

Perhaps she had been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps she should instead ask questions, so that she might try to puzzle out what terrible turn of events had brought Peter to the streets of London in such a state.

"Where are you from, Peter?"

"Here."

"Here in London?"

Jack nodded. "Oxford Street. I live here."

"Where before here?"

Once again, Jack was peering at her suspiciously. "Why do you want to know so much?"

Wendy sat upon the ground before this JackPeter or PeterJack, her skirts surely being sullied beyond cleaning, and looked frankly into his face. "Because I know you, Peter. I knew you before."

Shaking his head with disbelief, Jack insisted, "I've never met you before, except the night I got my head bashed in because you grabbed me." And, at this, Jack fingered a spot on his head, where some lasting injury perhaps lay hidden beneath his cap. With a remembering wince, Peter said stubbornly, "You should probably go now. I don't want any trouble."

"Will you be here tomorrow?" Wendy asked, just as stubborn in her turn.

With a grudging nod, Jack admitted, "I'm always here."

And so Wendy allowed herself to be shooed away, secure in the knowledge that she could find this PeterJack or JackPeter again after school the following day, and dearly hoping that Lottie could lift the stains from her dress before Aunt Millicent saw them.

* * *

The next day, Wendy arrived on Oxford Street again, this time carrying a small bag that contained some bread and cheese. She'd used her pocket money to buy it, because Peter had looked so very hungry when she'd last seen him. She simply could not bear to see him suffer so.

When she found him again, he lay in the same place, still huddled against the wall as if trying to escape the brisk spring wind.

"Peter?" she called gently, unsure if he was asleep or awake. He turned to look at her, and she smiled. He seemed sleepily surprised to see a smile for him upon such a clean and beautiful face, but then he woke up further he suddenly remembered her and warily struggled to a sitting position.

Holding out the bag which contained the food she'd brought, Wendy explained, "I brought you something to eat," hopefully watching his face for some indication of softening toward her.

He snatched the bag from her hands and began voraciously gobbling down the bread and cheese she'd bought with her pocket money. If she had realized he was truly **this** hungry, she would have brought more.

When the food was gone, he looked up at her once again, now somewhat embarrassed. "I was very hungry," he explained belatedly, still not thanking her. But, then, he had never thanked her for sewing on his shadow, either, and so she could not be truly surprised. Peter Pan, in Wendy's experience had never been prone to expressions of gratitude or politeness, happy instead to accept the good life sent his way as if it were his due. And, if she were honest with herself, she needs must admit that this carelessness was rather charming, in its own way. And so this lack of thanks made her only more certain in her own mind that this was, indeed, Peter Pan.

Once again taking a seated position beside him, Wendy replied, "I dare say you still are hungry, Peter."

With a shrug, Jack admitted, "I always am. But even a little food is a good thing." And then he gave a tentative smile.

Wendy couldn't help gazing intently at his face as he smiled. Yes, it was all the same. His face was the same. His eyes, his nose, his smile. He was a few years older, just as she was, but this was definitely Peter Pan. But why didn't **he** know it? And why had he grown older? And ... oh there were just **too** many questions!

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked, glancing away uncomfortably.

Wendy blushed lightly. "I'm sorry, Peter. I was just ... you look just the same as when I knew you before, only a little older."

"How would a lady like you know a scalawag like me?"

"You weren't always a scalawag, Peter." Then, realizing what she had said, Wendy could not stop herself from grinning. "Well ... actually, yes, you were, but you were a **different** sort of scalawag when I knew you before."

Jack was quiet a long moment, and then admitted softly, as if he were revealing a great secret, "I don't remember much before living here." Then he looked up to meet her eyes, and in his there seemed to be shining a dim light of hope. "Do you think you might really have known me?"

Wendy nodded with serious eyes gazing directly into his own. "Yes, Peter. I did. And you were my hero."

* * *

When Wendy arrived the next day, young PeterJack sat once more in his same location upon the sidewalk, though this time he looked rather as if he had been expecting her. She thought his face looked even as if he had perhaps attempted to wipe it, though it was quite clear that water had not been involved, let alone soap.

A wooden apple crate sat beside him. When he saw her, he gestured to the crate with an embarrassed shrug. "You shouldn't have to sit on the ground," he mumbled self-consciously.

Wendy sat upon the crate as if it were the finest chair in Aunt Millicent's well-appointed home, for she was pleased and honored that Peter had thought about her comfort. "Thank you," she said with real pleasure in both her eyes and her voice, and PeterJack blushed.

"I told Old Maddie and Big George this morning that they should call me 'Peter' now," he said hesitantly, his shoulders hunching further as if to protect him from a blow. "I told them it's my real name." For, in truth, though he was still dubious about the truth of all this, the young man had come to believe that even if he was not the person this lovely lady sought, he would **like** to be the man who was her hero, and so he simply chose to believe her tale. It was certainly far better than believing he was a worthless piece of garbage, in any case.

His words made Wendy smile even more broadly, and she clasped her hands together in her lap to keep herself from throwing her arms around him, certain that he would not appreciate the gesture. At her movement, she remembered that she held another bag of food for Peter -- and indeed we shall call him "Peter" now, since he himself had accepted the name.

"I have brought more food for you," she explained, offering him the bag.

This time, however, Peter smiled and took the bag without snatching it from her hands, before proceeding to open the bag and eagerly begin eating the bread, cheese, and apple contained therein.

"Who are 'Old Maddie' and 'Big George'?" she asked curiously.

With his mouth still rather rudely full, Peter obliviously replied, "Just people who live here."

With a bit of a puzzled frown, Wendy asked, "'Here' where?"

"Just ... around. Nearby. I never asked. They just talk to me sometimes."

"Are they friends of yours, then, Peter?" This was the first she had heard of anyone who had known Peter in London, and she was terribly curious.

But Peter only shrugged carelessly, still more interested in the food Wendy had brought, munching the apple greedily. "I guess they're friends. I'm not fond of grown-ups, but Old Maddie and Big George are nice to me."

"Not fond of grown-ups? But, Peter, you have grown up, yourself! Just look how tall you are!"

"I am **not** grown up! And I do not ever wish to be grown up, either." 

He sounded so very like his old self that Wendy felt quite breathless with excitement. "Peter, what do you remember before you came to live on Oxford Street?"

Shaking his head as he chewed, Peter mumbled, "Not much."

Wendy found herself quite uncertain where to begin, for talk of flying children and fairies and mermaids and pirates seemed likely to convince Peter once more that he should not listen to her. And so she considered carefully what she might say that he might actually believe.

"You had six brothers," Wendy began with determination, "Nibs, Slightly, Tootles, Curly, and the twins. You were the eldest, and you took care of the others, almost like a father."

"I don't remember that," admitted Peter with curious eyes.

"They were quite excitable boys, really, always racing off to fun and adventure, and you were the most adventurous of them all." Peter seemed to be listening closely to what she said, but he offered no response.

"You lived ... er ... in the country," continued Wendy, once again put into the situation of telling a story, this time even more so. She found herself quite dismayed, for the storytelling skill had utterly left her. The sensation was nearly painful. But it was important for Peter, and so she would not surrender to her own weakness.

"There were many trees, and lakes, and rivers," she continued, "and you all played among them every day."

Nodding slowly, as if trying to take all of this information in, Peter urged Wendy, "Tell me more."

* * *

Wendy had been visiting Peter on Oxford Street every day for nearly a week -- telling him more and more about the less fantastical elements of his life in Neverland and their previous times together -- when he interrupted her story for the first time to ask a question.

"Was there a man?" asked Peter uncertainly. "A man with ... long dark hair ... and blue eyes ... and he ... he hated me?"

Her heart suddenly in her throat, Wendy nodded without making a sound.

"He was very unpleasant," mused Peter slowly, as if searching his memory for each word. "I think ... I think he may have even tried to kill me," Peter hazarded, glancing nervously at Wendy's face to see if she now thought him insane to have thought this outlandish thing.

This time, Wendy could not restrain herself, and she clasped Peter's hands in hers, crying gladly, "Yes, Peter! He did! That was Hook!"

Peter frowned in confusion, embarrassedly pulling his dirty hands from her pale clean ones. "Hook? Was that his name?"

Wendy nodded excitedly, "Yes, Peter! What else do you remember?"

But here Peter shook his head, almost as if in apology. "Only that. Only ... Hook ... and I remember very little about him, anyway. Only ... feelings, really. And some vague images." He looked downcast now, as if certain he had disappointed Wendy.

Wendy continued to grin at him, however, and said, "But you have remembered something, Peter! You have remembered!"

Caught up in her enthusiasm, Peter found himself smiling hesitantly, and marveling, not for the first time, at the beauty and kindness of this young woman who seemed to care about him, even as wretched as he was. He knew it was inappropriate for him to have such thoughts about a fine lady, but he found himself wishing that he were somehow deserving of her. He knew he was not, but he could not stop himself from wishing.

* * *

The next time Wendy came to visit Oxford Street, she had a very determined look to her face, and she walked as if she were going in to battle. Peter watched her warily.

"I have made a decision," Wendy proclaimed before even saying hello or giving Peter any food. This was most irregular.

"You are to come home with me," Wendy said firmly, her chin tilted at a decidedly challenging angle.

Peter looked down at himself in his dirt and rags and shook his head. "You know I can't do that," he replied. "Just look at me." One cannot live long upon the London streets, after all, without learning one's place, particularly if one is excessively poor. If one does not learn quickly enough, one is taught most energetically by a policeman's nightstick, as Peter had seen for himself upon more than one occasion.

Her chin raising even a bit more, Wendy insisted, "You could have a bath. And eat a real meal, with hot food. And sleep in a real bed, where it is warm and soft."

But Peter could be as stubborn as she, and so he replied, "I can't, Wendy." And that was the first time he had used her name. Aunt Millicent would have been horrified at the familiarity, but Wendy found herself strangely thrilled by this additional sign of the forward Peter Pan she had known.

But Wendy had made her decision, and she would not be gainsaid. "Peter, I cannot live in a fine house while you sleep on the hard ground with no food or shelter. **That** is what is not right. And so if you will not come home with me today, right this instant, then I shall instead sleep on this very ground, just as you do." And at that, Wendy sat upon the sidewalk and crossed her arms.

Their battle of wills lasted quite an extended period of time and included some rather heated arguments during which both their voices were raised and they drew the attention of several passersby, but after a prolonged silent staring contest, Peter finally relented. "If you wish it," he grumbled ungraciously, sending Wendy leaping to her feet with a cry of joy.

Wendy gave him no opportunity to bid good-bye to Old Maddie or Big George or any other friends and acquaintances he might have on Oxford Street, for she was determined to take him with her before he might have a chance to change his mind. Taking Peter's arm, Wendy immediately led him to the street, hailed a hansom cab, and gave the driver Aunt Millicent's address.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Wendy's blue eyes grew steely with determination, for now would come the **true** test of her resolve.


	3. By the Light of the Lamp

Aunt Millicent, as one might imagine, was most decidedly **not** pleased when her niece arrived on the doorstep in the company of a rag-tag beggar. Initially, she would not permit Peter to enter the house at all, but when Wendy too then insisted upon remaining outside and arguing where all neighbors might see and hear, Aunt Millicent ushered them both inside with an anxious glance to each side to see if anyone had been watching.

"Miss Wendy Darling, you shock and appall me!" Aunt Millicent scolded in her most prim voice as they stood in the entryway beside the ornate umbrella stand that looked like a swan with umbrellas all cruelly impaling its back. Glancing with great distaste at Peter, Aunt Millicent continued, "You know quite well that I cannot offer room and board to every beggar on the street! I should be quite ruined!"

Wendy had followed Aunt Millicent's instructions in all things for years, but she now found herself utterly determined to have her own way. Wendy knew that she was right, and Aunt Millicent was wrong, and she would not surrender in this.

"Aunt Millicent, I do not ask you to welcome every poor soul in London. I ask you only to welcome this one young man, who is my very dear friend, and who has fallen upon most wretched hard times."

Aunt Millicent's back straightened with her anxiety at Wendy's usage of the phrase "very dear friend," for this grimy fellow was simply not a good connection for a proper young lady of society. Aunt Millicent looked rather as if she had suddenly tasted a particularly tart lemon. "Absolutely not, young lady!"

"Would you have me abandon a friend so, Aunt? Does a proper English lady show so little loyalty and honor? Should not a true lady be gracious and generous to those less fortunate?"

Aunt Millicent refused to show it upon her face, but she did feel somewhat chastened by her charge. To be so rebuked by the very young lady she was instructing! It was quite irregular, more than a little impertinent, and not at all becoming. But Aunt Millicent had never been a particularly clever woman, relying instead upon convention and habit for her guidance, and so Wendy's determined arguments were confusing and confounding her. It was but a matter of time before Wendy Darling had her way.

"I **will** help him, Aunt. I **must** help him. It is the right and noble thing to do. Think of when Slightly arrived, when he too was dirty and without a home. You welcomed him and cared for him. Do you not remember?"

Aunt Millicent toyed with the locket at her throat, though she had repeatedly instructed Wendy that such fidgeting was unladylike. "If we are to have such a fellow under this roof," Aunt Millicent began, sending a rush of joy through Wendy's spirit, "then we must have a doctor in to ... to examine him for ... diseases. He is so very ... **dirty**." She eyed Peter as if he were some particularly disgusting insect that had found its impertinent way into her elegant home.

Wendy only nodded, smiling happily. "I shall tell Lottie to draw him a bath."

Throughout this conversation, Peter had remained quite still, his eyes and ears attentive to all that surrounded him. The older woman seemed decidedly unpleasant and clearly disliked him in the extreme, and her home was quite shockingly fine, filled with all manner of ornate and shining objects. Peter caught sight of himself in the looking glass that hung to one side of the entranceway, and his soiled face and clothes looked ridiculously incongruous surrounded by such finery. He felt a rather irrational urge to flee.

But at that moment the lovely Wendy took his arm once more to lead him up the stairs. As they passed a young woman dressed more plainly than Wendy and her aunt, Wendy said, "Lottie, would you draw a bath for Mr. Pan? And see if Harry might have some clothing he could borrow." The other woman curtsied and walked away.

Wendy led Peter to a room that looked decidedly feminine in its furnishings, with pink patterned wallpaper and a dressing table covered with decorative glass bottles. The windows were covered in dark pink velvet curtains with cream lace curtains within, matching the colors in the wallpaper. The large bed was covered in a pink and white coverlet, and hung with white curtains all 'round, though they were currently pulled aside and fastened to the bedposts with satin ribbons.

Peter found himself increasingly uncomfortable. He was expected to sleep **here**?

"I do apologize for all of the pink," Wendy said ruefully, "but Aunt Millicent decorated the guest room based purely upon her own tastes. My own room is much the same. Her own is only more ornate."

Peter stood awkwardly beside the young lady who had brought him to this strange land and clasped his hands together, afraid to touch anything. His eyes alone moved, examining the room in some dismay.

* * *

Peter had never been particularly bothered about bathing, but he found that he was surprisingly glad to rid himself of the dirt and smells of the street. He even scrubbed his fingernails, though they did not come entirely clean. Still, with his light brown hair now damply tousled and his skin scrubbed until it was nearly pink, Peter looked like quite a different young man. 

After Peter had bathed and dressed in some spare clothes given him by Harry, Aunt Millicent's driver, it was time for dinner. Downstairs, out of his hearing, Wendy and her aunt were talking about their visitor.

"I shall send up a tray to the young man," Aunt Millicent decided, loathe to dine with a heathen at her own dining table. If she had seen him after his bath, she might have been slightly more charitable, but she had no interest in seeing him again. "I'm sure he will be **much** more comfortable dining in the guest room this evening."

Wendy was unhappy with this line of thinking, but after winning such a great victory as welcoming Peter into her aunt's home, Wendy was wise enough to hold her tongue on such a small matter.

* * *

And in truth Aunt Millicent was correct in her excuses, for Peter was quite pleased to have a tray of hot food delivered to him without his being forced into the company of such a disapproving and formidable lady. Unsure where he should eat this lavish meal, Peter at length sat cross-legged upon the floor beside the bed and ate as if he were at a picnic, or still out on the street. And if Aunt Millicent had seen him, she would have no doubt been appalled by his manners, for he wielding his knife and fork quite as if they were weapons and enthusiastically took bites considerably larger than would have been polite.

After he had finished eating, he opened his door cautiously and peered outside, uncertain what was now expected of him. The plainly dressed blonde woman was nearby, and asked him if she might take his tray. Peter nodded, feeling rather overwhelmed by the entire experience of this evening, and brought his tray to her. She smiled and left, and so Peter went back into his room. He was unsure whether the door was meant to be left open or closed, but the older woman had seemed so disgusted by him that he decided to close the door so he would not have to encounter her more than necessary.

Finding nothing else to amuse himself, Peter passed some amount of time by opening various drawers and cabinets within the room, but found little of interest within them. Some small cloth packets filled with something that smelled of flowers, some stationary, and various other such mysterious objects were stashed here and there, but nothing particularly exciting.

He wandered aimlessly around the room, scuffing his feet against the rug and idly swinging back and forth while hanging on to the tall bedposts. After discovering the looking glass, he found quite a bit of entertainment in making faces at himself. He had not had much occasion to interact with mirrors before, and so he grinned, and stuck his tongue out, and opened his eyes very wide, and turned around in a twisting effort to look at the back of his body, and generally amused himself rather well.

At length, however, even the looking glass lost its novelty, and Peter became rather bored, sitting at the window and looking out over the gray slate roofs and down at the carriages and people in the street. He heard various noises in the house, soft talking between ladies, footsteps, doors opening and closing, water running, etc. After some time of such noises, all fell quiet, and Peter no longer saw light shining from beneath his door. It would appear they had extinguished the lamps and retired for the evening. Peter extinguished the lamps in his room, as well, and was surrounded by darkness..

Climbing fully clothed into the pink and white bed, Peter lay upon his back and stared at the ceiling above him. He thought of closing the curtains around the bed, but then feared someone might catch him unawares if his vision was so obstructed. And so he lay and listened to his heartbeat in the silence. He was not certain whether he could sleep on so soft a surface, and in such quiet. It was all very unfamiliar.

Peter had been lying in thought for some time when he heard a gentle knock upon his door, so quiet that he almost did not hear it. Wondering if perhaps he was to be kicked out into the street in the middle of the night, Peter crept to the door and opened it, only to see Wendy in a high-necked lavender dressing gown, her hair streaming down about her shoulders. She carried a small lamp which illumined her face, making her look as if she were lit from within like an angel.

"I thought you might be lonely in a strange place," she whispered, "particularly because you were not with us at dinner." She knew this was most unseemly, for her to visit a young man's bedchamber in the night, with no chaperone, and in her dressing gown. But this was Peter! Normal rules did not apply.

"I thought you might like to talk, as we have always done. I thought perhaps it might help you be more comfortable, perhaps help you sleep."

His sea-blue eyes wide in surprise and curiosity, Peter opened the door and let Wendy enter, then closed it again behind her, lest the older woman hear them talking. "I **was** having trouble going to sleep," Peter admitted quietly.

Wendy sat upon the floor at the foot of the bed and patted the rug beside her, admiring his lovely brown hair with its blond streaks. He looked quite handsome in the golden lamplight, very like the boy she had known so long ago. He had changed little, really. Older, taller, but still the same.

She and Peter sat cross-legged together and leaned their backs upon the footboard of the bed. Sitting so near her, away from the street for the first time, Peter could smell her hair and skin. She smelled of soap and flowers. It was a very nice smell.

"Will you tell me more stories of when you knew me before?" Peter asked softly, the dim light of her lamp making his eyes seem to glow. When Wendy nodded, he asked softly, "You've never said ... how did we meet?"

Wendy grinned and whispered, "Well, you needed some sewing done, you see, for you had had a bit of an accident. And so I brought out my needle and thread and sewed you up, good as new. And then you, cheeky boy, you leapt up and cried, 'Oh, the cleverness of me!'"

"I said that?" whispered Peter in surprise.

"Yes, Peter."

"That **was** quite cheeky, after you had helped me."

"Yes, it was, Peter. And so I was upset with you. But then you came to me and you said that one girl is worth more than twenty boys..."

"I said that?"

"Yes, Peter. Why?"

"Well, I suppose it's true, anyway."

This made Wendy smile. "And so you asked me to come help you care for your brothers, and I went with you, and they built me a little house, with a chimney and windows and a door knocker. It was the most cunning little house I have ever seen!"

"You **left** with me?" asked Peter, somewhat shocked and suddenly wondering exactly what their previous relationship had been. Such a fine young lady? Run away with **him**?

Wendy whispered reassuringly, "We were but children, Peter. Eventually I did return to my parents, but first we had many adventures together."

"You and me and my brothers?"

"Yes, and my brothers, as well, Peter."

"Oh, well, if your brothers were there, too."

"They were. And you played at pretending to be the father, and when the boys accidentally hurt me, you chased them around, saying that we should kill them before they hurt me again."

"My brothers hurt you?"

"Yes, but they didn't know. It's very difficult to explain, Peter. I am sorry."

"Did they ever hurt you again?"

"No, Peter. They were perfectly lovely boys, though a bit wild."

"What happened next?"

"Well, a bad man had taken my brothers prisoner..."

"The bad man I remembered? The one with the dark hair and the blue eyes and the red hat ... and the ... he had something wrong with his hand."

"Yes, Peter, it was Hook who had my brothers. Do you remember anything more about him?"

"No. I can't even remember his face, it's all very vague still."

"Don't worry. I am sure you will remember eventually."

"I hope so. So what happened when Hook had your brothers?"

"We went after them, and you showed me how to fight, and then you said, 'Promise me one thing,' and I asked you what, and you said, 'Leave Hook to me!'"

"I imagine I did not want you to be injured or captured, if the fellow was so very fierce."

"Perhaps so, Peter, but I thought you were treating me like a helpless girl. I was quite frustrated with you."

"And so what did you do?"

"Oh, I was very foolish, and I called after you, and Hook heard me. He came to look for me, but I hid and he did not see me."

"Well, that's a relief!"

"I agree! And then you fooled Hook by mimicking his voice oh so very cleverly, Peter! It was quite something to hear!"

"I mimicked his voice? What did I say?"

Wendy giggled quietly, and then whispered, "You said that you were Captain Hook, and then Hook said..." -- and here Wendy tried to lower her voice into a Hook-like growl, still trying to keep as quiet as possible -- "'If you are Hook, then who am I?' and you said, 'You are a **codfish**!'"

Peter laughed quietly. "He must have been very angry."

Wendy nodded. "He was. You always made him very angry. And so we saved my brothers, and you were a hero, Peter."

"A hero," Peter sighed softly. "I was a hero?"

Wendy smiled gently. "So very many times, Peter."

Peter nodded slowly, his eyes shining with wonder. "Tell me more!" he whispered eagerly.

"I'm afraid it's growing very late, Peter. I must go to bed, and allow you to sleep."

"Just tell me one more thing, Wendy! Please?"

"All right, Peter." She tried to think of something else she could tell him that was not too strange, and then she thought of something. "We danced together in the forest. And it was so beautiful!"

"You and I danced?"

Wendy nodded. "Shall I show you?"

Peter looked very uncertain when he said, "You want me to dance with you?"

Wendy nodded again and stood, holding out her arms.

Peter climbed to his feet, his limbs made awkward by nervousness, but he made a small bow before he placed his right hand shyly upon Wendy's waist. Wendy took his left hand in her right one -- her hand was so soft! -- and placed her left hand upon his shoulder. And then they began to dance in the lamp-lit bedroom, dancing to music that played only in their heads. Peter looked tentatively into Wendy's eyes, and he felt suddenly warmed by what he saw when she looked at him.

Pulling his hands away from her in a sudden burst of anxiety but still standing very close, Peter asked softly, "What happened after we danced?"

Looking up into Peter's face, though he would not meet her eyes, Wendy whispered, "We spoke of love, Peter."

Peter's eyes met Wendy's once more and he whispered hoarsely, "What did I say about love?"

Wendy's eyes clouded oh so subtly, but Peter saw it. "You said you had never felt it. You said that the very sound of it offended you."

Peter tilted his head, took a deep breath, and said softly, "Wendy, I think I must have been lying."

Wendy smiled weakly and stepped away from Peter, smoothing her hair with her hands and tightening the already snug belt of her dressing gown. "I should go, Peter. I hope you sleep well."

"I'm sure I will, now."

Wendy touched his arm lightly in farewell, offering him one last gentle smile, and then she was gone in a soft rustling of fabric and the smell of soap and flowers, and Peter found himself once more alone in his darkened pink bedroom.

Climbing up to lie flat on his back again on the bed, Peter drifted off to sleep quite easily this time, and dreamed wonderful dreams he had never imagined before. He dreamt of dancing with Wendy in a forest, and she was so beautiful she looked as if she were lit from within, like an angel.

But in his dream, they were both younger, and they rose into the air as they danced, and small lights flew 'round them like nothing he had ever seen, and it was like magic.


	4. A Doctor's Visit

The next morning, Peter was wakened from a deep sleep by another knock at the door. Thinking that it might be Wendy again, he leapt from the bed and cried, "Come in," while wiping his eyes to help him waken more fully.

Instead of Wendy, however, the blonde maid entered with a tray, upon which various items were arrayed. "Your tea, sir," the woman said, setting the tray upon a small, intricately painted table against the wall.

"Tea?" asked Peter doubtfully, as if fearful that the unfamiliar young woman was mocking him in some way he did not understand.

"Yes, sir," Lottie replied, and then upon seeing how confused the lad seemed to be, she poured a cup of tea for him and left it upon the tray, along with the few pieces of buttered toast.

Peter nodded hesitantly, only approaching the tray after the strange woman had left. He lifted the tea cup and smelled the contents, his head jerking backward at the strong scent. Hazarding a small sip of the liquid, he started sharply at the sudden and unpleasant sensation of burning his tongue. He very nearly splashed the tea onto the floor and himself, but only his natural grace saved him from needing to explain stains to his hostesses.

For, indeed, Peter found that he was feeling much more himself this morning, though still uncertain who exactly that might be. He found that he felt more comfortable, more agile, more energetic, and more cheerful.

And something inside him said that these changes were due not to hot food or a comfortable bed, but rather Wendy's stories. He felt as if, somehow, Wendy's stories were nourishing him in some way he did not understand. He felt stronger this morning, and more sure of himself. He felt, in fact, as if this had been building within him since the evening when Wendy had first grabbed his arm in the street, that something had been growing with every story she told, and that it had somehow flowered after last night's tales.

He did not understand it, but he somehow did not find this strange feeling within him frightening. He simply wanted to hear more stories!

* * *

Unsure whether he was welcome in other parts of the house, Peter stayed in his pink and white monstrosity of a bedroom until a strange man came to the door and asked to come in to see him.

"I am Dr. Carew," explained the older man with an abbreviated bow. "Miss Millicent Tilney has called me to examine you."

"I don't need a doctor," objected Peter immediately, backing away, his instincts jangling a warning in his breast.

"My boy, it is only a **precaution**. A lady such as Miss Tilney cannot welcome a young man such as yourself into her fine home without knowing that he is free of disease, so that he will not **endanger** herself or her charge."

"I'm not sick," insisted Peter, eyeing the doctor mistrustfully.

"Come, come. Let us get this over with, shall we? It shall not be painful, I assure you. Come, sit upon the bed so that I might examine you."

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Peter edged forward and sat upon the bed as the doctor had indicated.

The doctor performed all manner of ridiculous tests, instructing Peter to stick out his tongue and make various noises, pressing a cold thing to both his back and front and telling him to breathe deeply, requiring him to walk about the room, peering into his eyes and ears, and various other strange things.

At length, the doctor pulled away and asked him, "How long have you lived on the streets, Peter?"

Peter shrugged carelessly. "Two years, maybe. Something like that. I think that's what Old Maddie said."

Dr. Carew shook his head in disgust. "Two years? You should find yourself a **job** , lad."

"A **job**?" exclaimed Peter, offended by the older man's tone.

The doctor simply regarded him with cold blue eyes and said, "You are a fool, boy. You live in poverty because you are a **fool**. No man need live a life less than he likes, as long as he is willing to do what is necessary to obtain it."

Crossing his arms sternly, Dr. Carew concluded, "You are perfectly healthy, young Peter." Once more shaking his head, Dr. Carew strode arrogantly from the room, leaving Peter staring after him in mute fury.

* * *

Dr. Carew had been invited to join the ladies of the household for luncheon, and so he waited in the drawing room while Miss Tilney and Miss Darling dressed for the meal. They had, of course, been dressed quite beautifully when he arrived, but company for luncheon required a change of attire.

Peter, of course, had no appropriate clothing for such a meal, and so Aunt Millicent once more ordered that a tray be taken to his room.

After she had finished dressing, Wendy went to Peter's room to talk to him before going downstairs. He had now been given the doctor's approval, and so Aunt Millicent reluctantly gave Wendy permission to speak to the boy. Only so long, however, as the door remained open, of course.

"Peter," Wendy began, "I'm afraid Aunt Millicent has again refused ... er ... I mean ... Aunt Millicent thinks it best that you not join us at table. I'm very sorry, Peter. Honestly."

Pacing restlessly, Peter waved a hand and said, "I don't care about that. But I **am** starting to feel like a prisoner in this room. I never knew how much I hated pink." Peter eyed the wallpaper with loathing.

Wendy watched him as he moved, and was surprised to see that some of his old lithe grace had returned to him. Was it her imagination? He seemed stronger, more confident, more like the boy she had met so long ago, his head held just a little higher.

She thought -- and here she was certain she must be imagining things -- she thought that he might even look a bit **younger** this morning. His face seemed perhaps a bit more rounded, and when he walked near her Wendy found herself wondering if he were perhaps slightly shorter than when they had danced the previous evening.

 _Certainly he is not younger,_ Wendy assured herself firmly, _for that is impossible._ But whether he had grown younger or no, there was no denying that some bit of Peter Pan's indomitable spirit had returned to him, for there within his smile now was a smirk ... just waiting to escape.

Confused at this strange bent of her thoughts, Wendy excused herself to go down to luncheon, leaving Peter to his confinement in a world colored entirely in various shades of pink.

* * *

A short while later, Wendy listlessly pushed mutton cutlets about on her plate, remembering her aunt's constant remonstrances that she not eat more than the smallest amount, lest she appear indelicate.

Dr. Carew, however, followed no such stricture, for he fed plentifully of the meat and vegetables the cook had prepared. "Your house is quite **wonderful** , Miss Tilney, as is this luncheon. I am truly honored that you have made me so welcome." His voice was so ingratiatingly charming that it made Wendy's skin crawl. And there was a certain coldness to his blue eyes ... it was dreadfully familiar, and yet she could not discern why.

Aunt Millicent nearly giggled in delight. It was rare that she had a gentleman to luncheon. In fact, perhaps, this might be the first time such a thing had happened since her girlhood.

"Oh, Dr. Carew, it is my pleasure." And then, with a considering look which she would have been horrified to realize was quite obvious upon her features, Aunt Millicent suggested, "Perhaps some evening you and your wife might honor us with your presence at dinner?"

"I am afraid I have no wife, Miss Tilney. I live quite **alone** ," responded Dr. Carew with a charming smile. Wendy did not like his smile. It seemed so ... calculating.

In fact, Wendy found that she did not like Dr. Carew himself, at least upon such short acquaintance. He wore the same clothes, the same fastidious hair style, and the same insipid facial expressions as every other gentleman to whom Aunt Millicent had ever introduced her. It was only the shrewd light in his eyes that distinguished him, and Wendy's vague sense that he was not entirely forthright.

These thoughts, of course, could not but lead her to think of Peter, for he was so very different. He was honest and open, even when he had been refusing to trust her. He spoke his mind, and when he smiled, his smile was true, rather than a polite contrivance. Peter Pan was **real**.

"There are so few **true** ladies of an appropriate age these days," Dr. Carew mused in an obvious bid at flattery. "You are a **rare** woman, Miss Tilney. Rare indeed!"

Aunt Millicent's hand flew to her throat as she smiled in her best attempt at flirtation. "I do my best, Dr. Carew. I wish to instruct my niece in the lessons of my own youth, that she might escape the influences of this profligate time."

"Indeed. A young lady in this day needs protection if she is to grow up **properly**. Heavens, one need only look at the proliferation of the infernal motor cars in London today to see how much our dear city and country are changing. There is no respect for **tradition** anymore."

"In fact," pointed out Aunt Millicent, doing her best to smile a coquettish smile, "we should never have met were it not for the danger of motor cars."

"Ah, yes. For the street crush had been caused by a motor car frightening the horses. I had quite forgotten."

"It was a lucky happenstance for us, I dare say," smiled Aunt Millicent. Wendy wanted to groan in embarrassment for her aunt's obvious interest in the doctor, but she instead poked her mutton cutlet with a particularly savage jab of her fork.

"I do not **believe** in happenstance," claimed Dr. Carew with a theatrical raising of his chin. "I do not believe in coincidence or chance, but I do believe in **providence**. I believe that we four people came together on that evening not by accident but by **design**. If that young fellow had not pulled Miss Darling from your carriage, your voices would not have risen to demand my assistance, and I should not have left my own carriage to come to her rescue."

Wendy opened her mouth to object most insistently that Peter had **not** pulled her from the carriage and that she had needed **no** high-handed rescue, but Aunt Millicent caught her eye and frowned deeply, shaking her head only the slightest amount. But Wendy received the warning message, and clenched her jaw most unbecomingly, glaring down at the food she was not supposed to eat.

Looking back toward Dr. Carew, Aunt Millicent agreed with a smile, "Yes, we would most likely never have met."

Nodding, Dr. Carew leaned forward and said intently, "Some might call it God. Some might call it Magic. But whatever it is, I do believe that some force **guides** our paths. And that it has guided us **together** , Miss Tilney."

Aunt Millicent, it must be regretfully admitted, tittered. Wendy dearly wished to put her head down into her hands and groan her dismay, perhaps even bang her forehead upon the table to relieve some of this horrid pent-up frustration, but she instead simply cut off the tiniest possible piece of carrot and put it into her mouth. Aunt Millicent had taught her well to contain her emotions. Wendy would not endanger Peter's welcome here by her own behavior, if she could possibly help it.

As Dr. Carew and Aunt Millicent continued their disgusting flirtation, Wendy turned her eyes to the doorway, beyond which was the stairway, though she could not see it. How she longed to be upstairs with Peter, instead of at this wretched dining table.

She wondered about Dr. Carew's theory of fate, or providence, or magic, thought about the possibility of some force pulling people together. Perhaps that was why she had seen Peter on the street that evening. Perhaps she was **meant** to find him again. She liked the thought, and smiled a secret smile.

Wendy thought fondly of their conversation the previous evening, how excited he had been to hear her stories of their past together, how sweetly they had danced, how earnest he had looked when he said he thought he must have lied about feeling love. Wendy blushed softly at her thoughts.

If Wendy had been paying attention, she might have noticed that the man across the table bore a striking resemblance to one in her stories. As it was, however, she ignored him as only yet another foppish fellow, and barely even saw him at all.

"I must admit," frowned the dashingly handsome Dr. Carew as he shook his dark head slightly, "that I do find it **disturbing** that Miss Darling has befriended the very ruffian who **attacked** her!"

"Oh, yes," agreed Aunt Millicent eagerly, "so do I. The poor are horrid! Robbers and thieves, idlers, cheats, and impostors."

"He might be an unhealthy influence on such an impressionable young lady, not to mention a physical **danger** ," Dr. Carew warned with a suave solicitousness, ignoring the fact that the young lady in question sat across the table, lost in thought with a soft smile on her face.

"I have worried the same thing," admitted Aunt Millicent readily.

"He seems healthy upon first examination, but some diseases do not make themselves clear until they are so far advanced as to be terribly contagious and **deadly**."

Aunt Millicent gasped in horror, her hand once more rising to her throat.

"Oh, yes," Dr. Carew continued, feeding Aunt Millicent's fear. "The poor carry so **many** diseases, Miss Tilney. Cholera, influenza, consumption, typhoid..."

Aunt Millicent went quite pale and repeated fearfully, "Typhoid! And with Wendy in such frail health!"

Nodding sagely, Dr. Carew advised, "If Miss Darling's health is delicate, I would urge you not to keep this young man in your home. In any case, he appears to be sixteen years at least! **Quite** old enough to go to the workhouse and make a productive contribution to society."

None of the three people sitting at the dining table, most especially not the young lady quite lost in her own pleasant thoughts, noticed a quiet gasp from outside the dining room. None of them saw the curious young man who sat listening upon the stairs, or his outraged expression upon hearing the word "workhouse".

"The poor are poor," philosophized Dr. Carew with an utter lack of mercy or compassion, "because they are prone to **laziness**. The workhouse is surely the best place for him, Miss Tilney. Of that there is little doubt."

* * *

At length, Wendy was pulled from her daydreams by the two older people rising from their chairs. Aunt Millicent gave Wendy a stern look that seemed to indicate she would be severely reprimanded for her impolite woolgathering during luncheon, and the three retired to the drawing room.

Aunt Millicent gestured to the settee and asked Dr. Carew, "Shall we sit and talk a while?"

But Dr. Carew replied, "I'm afraid I have an appointment with another patient this afternoon. Could you tell me the time?"

Glancing at the ornate clock on the mantle, which was rather garishly decorated with gold cherubs and fruits, Aunt Millicent exclaimed, "Oh, my! It has gone 2! I had no idea we had talked so long!"

With a courtly smile, Dr. Carew responded, "The conversation was so enjoyable that the time passed far more quickly than I realized. I fear I must leave to see my next patient. But I **do** thank you for your warm hospitality, Miss Tilney." He turned and bowed to Wendy, adding, "Miss Darling."

Lottie, always anticipating her mistress's needs and desires, appeared to show the doctor to the door. He paused, of course, at the table in the entryway to take up the small bundle that had been left there for him, lest he be offended at being paid directly like a common tradesman. A doctor, after all, was a gentleman. Unlike a good-for-nothing such as Peter Pan.

With a slyly calculating glance back toward the drawing room, and another up the stairs, Dr. Carew stepped out into sunlight and into his waiting carriage.

"I wonder that he does not carry a pocket watch," mused Aunt Millicent curiously as she watched at the window until he had gone.

* * *

After receiving a brief lecture on the rudeness of inattention when company called, Wendy went up the stairs to the guest room, only to find the door open and the room empty. Harry's clothes lay upon the bed, and Peter's own patched clothes -- though now clean, with thanks to Lottie -- were gone.

With a cry of distress, Wendy ran downstairs to the front door and opened it wide, desperately searching the busy afternoon street for any sign of Peter's tousled head. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Peter was gone.


	5. Squalor and Magic

Peter was not in his usual place on Oxford Street the following afternoon, nor the following day, nor the day after that. After a full week of seeking him there, Wendy realized she must find some alternate way to search for him.

Remembering that Peter had mentioned the names of two of his friends on the streets, Wendy began to ask after a woman named "Old Maddie" and a man named "Big George." But the people with whom she spoke seemed fearful and resentful of her presence among them, eyeing her finely-tailored dresses and stylish hats with suspicious eyes.

After speaking to a great many people on a great many different days, Wendy at last met an elderly woman on Oxford Street who admitted to being called "Old Maddie." She had few teeth, what few she had were dark with rot, and she wore a dress that was little more than a collection of rags. Her gray hair stuck out in odd tangled tufts in all directions, and she wore no hat, despite the wintry cold. She coughed and spat occasionally into a handkerchief of a color one might have described as "dirt."

"I'm Ol' Maddie, I am, Miss. What c'n I do fer ya, foin lady like ya? Don't want no trouble!"

"No, of course not, Miss ... er ... Maddie."

"Jus' 'Maddie', lass. Or Ol' Maddie, tha's fine, too."

"I'm looking for a boy, Maddie. A friend of mine. His name is Peter. He's about this tall" -- and here Wendy held her hand several inches above her own head -- "and he has light brown hair, and blue eyes with green and gray flecks in them, like the sea. I simply must find him, Maddie! I simply must." Realizing that she had been wringing her hands as she spoke, Wendy self-consciously smoothed down her skirt and tried to regain her composure. Finding Old Maddie after nearly three weeks of searching was rather difficult on her nerves.

Old Maddie coughed into her handkerchief and then eyed Wendy cautiously, looking her up and down as if she were appraising a horse. "Whachoo wan'im for, then?"

"Pardon?" asked Wendy.

"What you want 'im for, our Peter?"

Wendy began unconsciously wringing her hands once more. Aunt Millicent would have been appalled. "He ran away, you see. I'm not sure why, but I simply must find him."

Shaking her head, Old Maddie replied, "Oh, 'e left a ways back, 'e did. Said somebody 'as tryin' ta put 'im in da spoik."

"Spike?" asked Wendy in some confusion.

"Aye, the spoik. The workhouse, Miss. The spoik."

"I assure you, Maddie, that I am not trying to put Peter in the ... the spike ... or the workhouse ... or anything bad. I just must find him. I'm afraid of what will happen to him if I don't!"

Leaning her head back a bit, turning her head, and looking at Wendy out of the corner of her eye, Old Maddie asked suddenly, "W'd you be the Wendy lass 'e talked 'bout?"

Smiling a bright, sudden, relieved smile, Wendy cried, "Yes! I'm Wendy! He talked of me?"

With a sly smile, Old Maddie admitted, "Aye. 'e loiks you, 'e does. 'a's for certain."

"Oh, please, Maddie! Where might I find him?"

But instead of answering her, Old Maddie called out into the shadows of a stairway not far from where they stood. "Big George!" she shouted coarsely. "Big George!" This seemed to start the old lady coughing once more.

A very tall, very broad man with a quite remarkably large belly emerged out of the darkness. He had a quite impressive black beard, though his black hair was cropped close on his head. His clothes were of poor quality, but they were well-mended and fairly clean. He wore an apron, which seemed to indicate he worked at a trade of some sort.

"What you shoutin' about, then, Ol' Maddie?" he growled in a rumbling deep voice.

"This 'ere lady's lookin' for our Peter. You remember where 'e said 'e was goin'? East End, I think it 'as, but I don' remember more partic'larly." Old Maddie scratched her head, and Wendy found herself rather uncharitably wondering if the kindly old woman had lice. She refused to take a step away, however, lest she give offense.

The man who was apparently Peter's friend "Big George" rubbed his belly thoughtfully. "Di'n' he say Whitechapel? I remember 'cause o' the Ripper."*

"Whitechapel?" Wendy could barely contain her excitement at receiving some information after so much searching. "Did he say where in Whitechapel?"

Big George shook his head, "I don' rightly remember, Miss. Ya might look near the station, though, f'r my wife lived near there when she 'as a girl. Might've mentioned it to the lad. 'Fraid I don' remember more'n that." With no more formal good-bye, Big George simply turned around and walked back into the darkness of the stairway. Wendy could hear his heavy footfalls rising upward and away.

Old Maddie smiled her toothless grin and reached out a hand to touch Wendy's arm. "Shore been an honor meetin' ya, Miss. I do hope ya find yer lad. 'e's shore sweet on ya." And with a broad wink, Old Maddie gave a rather awkward curtsy and walked down a narrow alleyway and out of Wendy's sight.

"Whitechapel," Wendy murmured to herself. "Near the station." Nodding with determination, she stepped to the street and hailed a cab.

* * *

Unfortunately, three weeks later, Wendy had still not located Peter. She had ridden to Whitechapel every day after school and looked simply **everywhere** in that area's narrowly winding streets. She had scoured the area surrounding the station, alighting from her carriage frequently to walk where she might speak with the people who crowded the sidewalks.

Whitechapel was quite like a different London entirely from Bloomsbury and St. John's Wood. Smoke from the chimneys drifted in black flakes from the early summer sky as if it were snowing, falling upon Wendy's hat and dress in unsightly streaks. She was never more grateful for Lottie's laundering discretion than she had been since beginning her visits to Whitechapel.

Everywhere there were people, so very many people, all in such a small space, as if they were living quite on top of one another, and so many of them visibly ill, so many huddled barely clothed upon the street, their heads hanging low their clothes almost in rags. She saw barefoot children who looked no more than five years old, begging in the street or aggressively selling lozenges to passersby.

Whitechapel seemed to her almost like a wilderness, a dark and mysterious wilderness filled with dangers with which Wendy had no acquaintance. Everything there seemed somehow helpless, hopeless, unrelieved, and dirty.

Every afternoon that she was in Whitechapel, Wendy worried more for Peter, who had no warm, safe home to return to each night as she had.

What Wendy did not know, however, was that she had an observer. From shadows not only in Whitechapel but also upon occasion in St. John's Wood, the boy she sought often watched her, dazzled by her beauty and her kindness in seeking him. But he would not put himself once more in the power of Wendy's aunt and that infernal doctor -- he would **not** go to the workhouse -- and so he watched in silence, wishing with the brave part of his heart that Wendy would simply forget him and be happy, away from all this squalor and disease.

But wishing also, with the more selfish part of his heart, if truth be told, that Wendy would find him.

* * *

After her visit to Whitechapel one afternoon, Wendy arrived home somewhat later than usual. She had seen a tall boy with tousled light brown hair, and had chased him for several blocks before getting near enough to see that it was not Peter. She was tired and dirty and discouraged, and the last thing she wanted to see as she came in the front door was Aunt Millicent standing in the entryway with her arms crossed and a frown on her face.

" **Miss** Wendy Darling," Aunt Millicent began, and Wendy knew that this was going to be quite horrible, even only from that beginning, "I should like to know where you have been this afternoon." Striding into the sitting room and seating herself upon the divan, Aunt Millicent watched Wendy with raised eyebrows and her very sourest sour-lemon mouth.

Wendy walked slowly to the chair opposite the divan and sat nervously upon the edge. "I was helping Kitty Eliot with her embroidery," Wendy quietly repeated the lie she had been depending upon for these past several weeks.

Aunt Millicent tilted her head like a strange and curious bird, and then said sharply, "You will never guess whom I met at Selfridge's today."

Her heart sinking in her chest, Wendy answered dully, "Mrs. Eliot?"

With a rather bitter smile, Aunt Millicent replied, "And her lovely daughter Kitty! Strangely enough, neither of them seemed familiar with your after-class embroidery project of these past months."

"Aunt, I can explain!" Wendy cried, moving forward and once more wringing her guiltily-dirty gloved hands together.

"I do not wish to **hear** any explanations, Wendy Darling. I am deeply disappointed in you, and offended that you think so little of my guidance. If I allow you to behave in such unladylike ways, you shall find yourself quite unmarriagable."

Wendy opened her mouth to reply, to beg for some leniency, but Aunt Millicent's stern face warned her to hold her tongue. In fact, Aunt Millicent looked rather as if Wendy had slapped her across the face, so shocked and dismayed was that elegant lady to have been so shamelessly disrespected by the charge to whom she had devoted her considerable care and effort.

"And so I have made up my mind," Aunt Millicent continued grimly. "You are leaving school as of today, and you will from **this** day forward be instructed only here in my own home, where I can see for **myself** that you are behaving as befits a proper young lady."

"Leaving school?" gasped Wendy. "But I was to finish out the year!"

Shaking her carefully coifed head, Aunt Millicent stated flatly, "Your school days are done, Wendy Darling, and you have only yourself to blame. Future education would only spoil you further. Tomorrow, you shall instead spend the day with **me**."

At this, Aunt Millicent stood and strode stiffly from the room. She paused, however, in the doorway, her back to Wendy, and enunciated clearly, "And you shall **bathe** and change into less ... **soiled** garments **immediately**." She then left the room, thereby also leaving Wendy to her grief.

No school! No more reading! And no way to search for Peter any longer! Removing her soiled gloves with tears in her eyes, Wendy sunk her face into her also rather dirty hands and wept.

* * *

The following weeks were more of a nightmare than any hardship Wendy had observed in Whitechapel, for they included a very suspicious and mistrustful Aunt Millicent watching her at nearly every moment.

Wendy had made them both potentially the target of gossip with her lies, and Aunt Millicent was quite determined that she learn the error of her ways, for her own benefit. A young lady simply could not behave so brashly if she hoped to be accepted in good society and marry well.

As summer deepened and bloomed outside, Aunt Millicent and Wendy spent their days in the sitting room, or occasionally the drawing room, both thickly curtained and with little movement of the air. It was rather like living in a lavishly decorated cave.

Wendy played the piano, sewed embroidery upon gloves and handkerchiefs and a scarves, worked tapestries, accompanied her aunt on her social visits with frightfully boring people, and silently did everything she was bid to do ... but always in her heart she was worrying for Peter, wondering where he was and whether he was well, and many a private tear was shed into her needlework and onto the keys of Aunt Millicent's handsome piano.

* * *

On the day when Aunt Millicent instructed her niece to dress for visiting the Crawfords, Wendy had no idea that she was soon to be once more touched by fate ... or providence ... or magic ... or whatever it might truly be. Let us call it Magic, and be done.

Wendy and Aunt Millicent departed the house wearing their finest visiting clothes, for the Crawfords were a rather prominent family. Wendy wore her new white hat, which complimented her skin and hair quite well, and to all outward appearances she was like any other young lady abroad in London that day. Anyone would have thought the stiffness of her back due only to propriety and good posture, and never suspected the strength of will she exerted at every moment to keep herself from simply screaming and running away, or collapsing in hopeless tears.

One observer, however, saw what the others did not. He saw her struggle and her grief, and he longed to do something -- he was not sure what -- to help, to see her smile once more.

But the ladies knew not that they were watched, and, in their carriage, they did not converse. Aunt Millicent had insisted that Wendy continue to practice her conversation at home occasionally, but aunt and niece were still currently too much at odds to engage in friendly exchanges without prior arrangement. They saved their polite conversation for the Crawfords.

When they arrived at their destination, Miss Elizabeth Crawford surprised them by expressing a wish to walk in the park which lay just across the street. The summer weather was, after all, most prodigiously fine. With an ingratiating smile, Aunt Millicent assured both Miss Elizabeth Crawford and her elegant mother that they would be delighted to walk, as the sun indeed was particularly bright and pleasant.

It was as the group of four well-dressed ladies began their crossing of the street that Magic once more took a hand, for though they espied the yellow motor car that came suddenly 'round the corner, they found that Wendy and Miss Elizabeth, the two walking in front, were directly in the auto's path, with no remedy in sight. All four ladies cried out in horror.

Suddenly, the two endangered young ladies found themselves pushed forcefully forward, landing rather ungracefully upon hands and knees in their fine dresses. Behind them, where they had been until just this moment, they heard a most terrible crashing noise and a sickening thud, along with the horrified screams of onlookers upon the sidewalk.

It all happened in the briefest of moments, and by the time Wendy turned with stunned expression to see the horrible sight that lay behind her, it was all over. The yellow motor car was motionless in the center of the road, its driver gesturing wildly and insisting that the boy had come out of nowhere.

And there, in the street, bloodied and not moving, was Peter Pan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Jack the Ripper murders occurred in the Whitechapel area of London in 1888.


	6. At the Hospital

The doctors said it was a miracle the young man had not been killed.

Miss Millicent Tilney and Mrs. Lydia Crawford said it was a miracle that he had been there at all. "One moment," Aunt Millicent marveled, "he was not there, and the next moment he **was** , darting forward so bravely to save our lovely girls from certain death!"

Aunt Millicent and the Crawfords had become rather enamored of gallant Peter, now that he had so publicly and dramatically proven himself romantically heroic. Aunt Millicent, in particular, with her weakness for melodramatic novels, found the boy now perfectly wonderful. To be struck down by a motor car, in the act of saving two young ladies' lives! How thrilling!

Aunt Millicent was not, after all, a wicked woman, but only a trifle silly upon occasion, and perhaps sometimes misguided in her attempts to do what was best for her niece. In truth, she wished only to ensure that Wendy would not live the lonely spinster's life that she herself had lived. She wished above all things to see Wendy well married and happy. If she upon occasion treated Wendy too strictly or harshly, it was only toward this end, for she cared for her niece deeply, in her own way.

And though, if she had thought upon it in more depth, she might have worried that Wendy's attachment to young Peter might harm the girl's chances of marrying well, in truth Aunt Millicent was instead so carried away by the drama of the situation that she gave Wendy leave to visit Peter in the hospital as often as she liked ... particularly since Miss Elizabeth Crawford had taken to visiting him frequently, and there could certainly be no harm in anything that Miss Elizabeth Crawford chose to do.

In any case, concern for the boy had, through the Crawfords' attention, become quite fashionable.

* * *

Wendy's parents came as quickly as possible to the young man's bedside, for who could not offer whatever help possible to one who had saved their dear daughter's life? They knew not that he was the same young fellow who had tempted their children away some years before, but even if they had, they might have looked upon him with equal warmth and gratitude. They were, after all, rather kind-hearted folk who loved their children deeply, and who had been much more aware of the depth of that love since those children had gone missing for such a terrible time.

Wendy's mother gently but firmly insisted that Peter must be attended by the Darlings' trusted family physician, Dr. Woodhouse, who had long been treating the Darling boys for their frequent and numerous scrapes, bumps, and bruises, for they were a most energetic brood of scamps. Aunt Millicent would have preferred to have the boy seen by Dr. Carew, of course, but that gentleman had rather strangely refused, insisting that he would attend the boy at home but not at hospital.

When he did arrive, the white-bearded, most remarkably tall Dr. Woodhouse examined Peter thoroughly and met afterward with the Darlings and Aunt Millicent to discuss the boy's care, for all were concerned for him. It seemed he would be confined to the hospital for some time.

But if during this conversation Dr. Woodhouse perhaps gazed at Aunt Millicent with somewhat more attention than would be expected, it was little noticed by that elegant lady, for she had thoughts only for Dr. Carew, and the odd puzzle of why he would not come to the hospital.

Mary Darling, however, noticed Dr. Woodhouse's apparent interest with a willing matchmaker's eye. The Darlings had excellent reason, after all, to be so very fond of Dr. Woodhouse for so many years. He was a good and kind man, but also a very merry soul, and Mrs. Darling wished him well if such an old bachelor might find happiness in love.

Though Aunt Millicent seemed little disposed to return his feelings, Mrs. Darling planned to discreetly speak to each of them upon the subject in the future if such an opportunity arose.

* * *

And so Wendy visited the hospital every day, sitting by Peter's bedside from 2 until 5 each afternoon. Peter had been quite badly injured, and so Dr. Woodhouse did not yet know how long he would need remain hospitalized. His left leg was encased in plaster, the top of his head was thoroughly wrapped in bandages, and Dr. Woodhouse also believed that there might be various additional injuries hidden within Peter's body, where they could not be seen without surgery.

The very worst, however, was the fact that Peter had not wakened since the accident. Dr. Woodhouse had prescribed injections of morphine to relieve the extreme pain he must surely be experiencing, even in his unnatural slumber, but Wendy worried desperately by his bedside each day, waiting for him to open those sea-blue eyes she had spent so much time seeking in Oxford Street and Whitechapel.

After his thorough scrubbing by the nurses -- which was quite necessary to determine the extent of his injuries, since bruises were in many places difficult to distinguish from dirt --Peter looked quite sweetly innocent, with white blankets pulled up to his chin and his face relaxed. He lay silently, eyes closed, eyelashes motionless, like a sleeping prince who had been struck down by some mysterious spell.

When Wendy was quite sure that the hospital room was empty and that no one stood at the doorway, she once even leaned over to softly press her lips to Peter's, but he did not wake with her kiss.

Peter slept on.

And while he slept, Wendy continued to tell him stories. She often held his hand, and talked until her throat was sore and she coughed most distressingly. She told him the same stories over and over again, knowing that he would not mind, since the stories were all about him.

"Once upon a time," she would say, leaning close to his ear, so that none of the hospital staff would hear her tales. "Once upon a time, there was a boy named Peter Pan who decided not to grow up..."

* * *

As has been mentioned, however, Wendy was not Peter's only regular visitor. The very elegant Miss Elizabeth Crawford -- dressed in the very latest of fashions, direct from Paris -- visited Peter nearly every day, as well, often moving her chair quite close to his bed and proprietarily holding his hand in hers, her white kid gloves bright against his golden skin.

It must be admitted that Peter now cut quite the handsome figure, even sleeping as he was upon his hospital bed. His blond-streaked brown hair was now clean and smooth, and his face now clearly visible after emerging from beneath his ragged cloth cap and several layers of the East End's infamous chimney soot. Peter, Miss Elizabeth Crawford had realized, was quite handsome indeed!

Miss Elizabeth Crawford herself, however, was not particularly handsome, especially to Wendy's jealous eye. Miss Crawford's pale red hair, freckles, and narrow hips were all excessively unfashionable. Luckily, Wendy's own faint youthful freckles had faded as she grew, but Miss Elizabeth Crawford had had no such luck, and her face somewhat resembled the Neverland's starry sky, save with orange freckles in the place of stars.

In her petulant hospital bedside ruminations on the unattractiveness of Miss Elizabeth Crawford, while that most unattractive of ladies held on to Peter's hand as if she had a right to do so, Wendy decided that most hideous of all Miss Elizabeth Crawford's flaws was that she was decidedly **silly**.

Wendy amused herself by imagining Miss Elizabeth Crawford facing various Neverland situations. _Captured by the Indian warriors! Oh, she would certainly be dead. Most likely scalped and dead. Kidnapped by Captain Hook! Gutted and dead. A midnight encounter with the mermaids! Drowned and dead. A hapless fall from the Neverland sky, aimed straight into the mouth of the volcano! Oh so unfortunately smashed, melted, and **dead**!_

And if Miss Elizabeth Crawford ever wondered at the sly smiles that sometimes flirted upon Miss Wendy Darling's lips while they both attended Peter's bedside, she certainly never inquired.

* * *

For his part, when Peter at long last woke from his unconscious state, he did not even notice Miss Elizabeth Crawford's freckled, silly, certainly-dead-in-Neverland existence, despite the fact that the young lady in question had a rather tenacious hold upon his right hand at the time.

"Wendy?" he murmured as his eyes opened groggily. Miss Elizabeth Crawford reluctantly released her hold upon his hand and moved further from the bed as Wendy eagerly approached to sit upon the chair close at his side.

"Peter?" Wendy replied, her heart beating so loud she thought surely people must hear it for miles 'round. "Peter?" And now Wendy took Peter's hand within her own, and felt somehow that her own grasp was right, whereas Miss Elizabeth Crawford's had been so very very wrong.

"Wendy," Peter mumbled as if still dazed with his long slumber, "I saw you ... in front of ... the car ... I had to save you." And here he squeezed Wendy's hand weakly, his eyelashes still fluttering as he said quietly, almost in a whisper, "You'll think ... I'm crazy ... but ... Wendy ... I think ... I think ... I **flew**..."

At this, Wendy smiled an awed and joyous smile, which Peter misconstrued immediately, even with his gaze as sleepy as it was.

"Laughing at me," he fretted, closing his tired eyes entirely once more.

Wendy pressed his hand between the both of hers and smiled the happiest smile she had smiled in a very long time, whispering close to his ear, so that Miss Elizabeth Crawford would not hear, "I am not laughing at you, Peter. I ... I believe you. I think you **were** flying, and the thought makes me so very happy." She leaned to kiss him softly upon his cheek, and Peter turned to look at her, sleepy uncertainty in his eyes. A long moment later, he smiled a small, smug smile, as if they shared some particularly marvelous secret together.

When Wendy looked up once more, she saw that the elegant Miss Elizabeth Crawford had gone.

* * *

Wendy's visits to Peter's hospital room became no more brief after his awakening, but nor did they become **longer** in duration, either. For Aunt Millicent still required much of her niece, not only in the way of needlework and piano playing, but also in the practice of conversation, for which Aunt Millicent had decided that luncheons with Dr. Carew were an excellent solution. For though she seemed quite immune to the hopeful glances of the kindly Dr. Woodhouse, Aunt Millicent continued to find the more dashing Dr. Carew endlessly fascinating.

In fact, Dr. Carew was now invited to Miss Millicent Tilney's home for luncheon twice weekly and had become quite comfortable with the two ladies in residence.

Wendy, however, continued to loathe him, most particularly for the embarrassingly girlish behavior he inspired in her aunt. He must surely be a decade Aunt Millicent's junior, and yet he behaved as if she might expect him to court her. It was as if Aunt Millicent were being mocked, unknowingly, in her own home, twice weekly.

After luncheon one afternoon, Wendy saw the most horrifying sight yet: Aunt Millicent presenting Dr. Carew with a gift, in thanks for his -- entirely unnecessary and quite self-important -- heroics upon their first meeting.

"I had noticed that you carry no pocket watch, Dr. Carew. And knowing how important your appointments are to you, I thought this might prove useful as well as fashionable."

Dr. Carew's face was carefully expressionless as he eyed the brass-cased pocket watch with its attached polished brass chain. A close observer might have noticed a look of rage and fear glimmer briefly in his cold blue eyes, but any such reaction was almost immediately squelched and hidden beneath his usual deceptively courteous manner. "A most appropriate gift, Miss Tilney. And thoughtful, as well. You have my thanks."

Aunt Millicent nearly tittered once more, and so Wendy looked away lest her frustration and disgust show upon her countenance. To be giving gifts to such a man! And he would not even attend Peter in the hospital! He was simply the most horrid man imaginable, and watching her aunt fawn over him in this manner made Wendy very nearly sick to her stomach.

"Aunt," Wendy interrupted quite rudely, if truth be known, "I must leave for the hospital. Might I call for Harry and the carriage?"

Distracted by her own concerns, Aunt Millicent did not reprimand Wendy even by a stern look. She simply smiled graciously, as if in a performance for her male guest, and told Wendy that she might indeed go.

And so Wendy left for the hospital, which was, rather oddly, so much more pleasant than home.

* * *

Now that he was awake, Peter had been experiencing sharp pains from within his abdomen, but when he discovered that Dr. Woodhouse thought that the surgeon might perhaps need to investigate what injuries might be hidden from their view, he ceased complaining of the pain and simply ground his teeth when the doctor or nurses probed that painful area, insisting that the pain was gone. They did not all, perhaps, believe him, but when his stubborn insistence continued, Dr. Woodhouse was forced to reluctantly accept that perhaps the pain had indeed been only transitory. He would not recommend surgery unless he was certain that such was absolutely necessary.

For the pain of Peter's leg and head, and any other aches that continued, the doctor prescribed injections of morphine, such as had been administered when the boy was not yet conscious. A wakeful Peter, however, was a much more difficult patient than a sleeping one. Peter did not trust the doctor's needles or their contents, and so insisted that he preferred pain to their "medicine." Again, his insistences were stubborn enough to defeat Dr. Woodhouse's prescriptions and advisements, in response to which that good doctor could only shake his head and smile in bemusement. The boy was certainly strong-willed, and perhaps that alone might serve him better than any outside treatment.

And though Dr. Woodhouse might find the difficult boy amusing, it must be admitted that the nurses began to anticipate with pleasure the day when Peter Pan would no longer be patient of theirs.

In truth, though perhaps Dr. Woodhouse would not have believed it, Peter was beginning to feel slightly better. He knew that it was not the "medicine" or anything else the hospital had offered. It was Wendy. Every story she told him lessened the sharp pain in his abdomen just the slightest bit more. Even the stories he had heard before ... it did not matter. It seemed to be Wendy's telling that mattered.

Wendy told him stories, and Peter's body ... healed. It was happening slowly, but it **was** happening. He felt it, inside. He **knew** it. He didn't know how or why, but he **knew**.

Wendy told him stories, and Peter's body healed ... and his memories continued to return.

* * *

When they learned that Peter had wakened from his long unnatural slumber, Wendy's parents eagerly came to his bedside, wishing to offer their thanks for his bravery in rescuing their only daughter. And so Peter somewhat dubiously submitted to having his cheek kissed by Mrs. Mary Darling, and shook hands rather awkwardly with Mr. George Darling, and told them he was quite glad to have saved their daughter, which was of course the truth.

Mr. Darling insisted, "If there is any way we might help you ... there is no way to repay, of course ... but ... if there is anything we can do to help you ... anything ... you need only say."

"Father?" interjected Wendy hopefully. "Peter might find use for some more appropriate clothing, when he leaves the hospital."

Mr. Darling nodded his head sharply, "Of course! Of course." As a bank manager, he loved a quantifiable answer to any question, and having a concrete way to in some small measure repay this young man's courageous help was most welcome.

Mrs. Darling asked gently, "Where will Peter be nursed when he leaves the hospital? He might stay with us if he likes." She smiled generously and kindly, wishing only the best for this young man who had kept her daughter safe.

"Mrs. Lydia Crawford and her daughter have offered their home, as Aunt Millicent has offered hers," Wendy said. She would not give details, but she knew that her aunt had been spurred to action by the fact that the Crawford family had paid Peter's hospital bills. She would not be outdone, and so she too had offered a place for Peter's recuperation.

"Well, young man," Mr. Darling rocked forward and back slightly on his feet, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "You have three homes to choose from, so which will it be?" Another simple answer. Always a good thing in George Darling's opinion.

Peter was rather dismayed at being so abruptly quizzed, but in actuality the answer was simple, for it had never truly been in question. There was only one person he trusted, for she had proven herself a true friend, searching for him, trying to help him, telling him stories, even helping him remember his past. No, the answer had never been in question.

"I wish to be with Wendy," he answered. Though he remained suspicious of Wendy's aunt and the doctor who had suggested sending him to the workhouse, he felt that his current status as wounded hero would most likely grant him a period of safety, until he could make his own way again.

Wendy knew that her aunt would be pleased, for she would view this as a social boon, having been chosen above the Crawfords.

And Wendy's parents too were pleased with this answer, for if truth be told their house was rather too crowded with boys already.

The only person, it would seem, who would be displeased with Peter's choice would be the elegant Miss Elizabeth Crawford. _But she,_ Wendy thought to herself with the last faint twinges of foundless jealousy, _can simply jump into a volcano._


	7. Hook

Peter proved to be an even worse patient at home than he'd been in the hospital. Particularly, that is, when Dr. Carew attempted to attend to him a week after the injured young man had been brought to Aunt Millicent's guest room.

"Keep that monster away from me!" Peter shouted most impolitely. "He wants to send me to the workhouse!"

Dr. Carew had insisted impatiently, "You need a doctor to mind your recovery, my young Peter." Patting his bag rather ominously with one hand, he continued, "I can **help** you, my boy."

"Stay out!" yelled Peter. "Stay out! I'm warning you!"

But Dr. Carew had arrogantly walked forward into the room despite Peter's words, resulting in a large silver candlestick being thrown with impressive accuracy across the room to bounce most inelegantly off of his forehead, leaving an angry red mark in its wake.

Holding a handkerchief to his forehead and cursing under his breath, Dr. Carew descended the stairs to tell Miss Millicent Tilney sharply, "My considered professional opinion is that the boy does not need a doctor's attentions. An attentive nurse should suffice."

* * *

And so it came to pass that Wendy and Lottie were trusted to nurse Peter back to health. As autumn marched toward winter and the cold weather grew more prevalent, Wendy quite happily sat by his bedside as many hours of the day as possible, with the fire merrily burning in the grate. Aunt Millicent rarely saw the boy herself, sending his meals up on trays and trusting Lottie to act as sufficient chaperone, and so Wendy was free to tell Peter stories many hours each day, without any cautions against the danger of her imagination.

Determined to help him recover his memories, many of which were still only rather vague, Wendy regaled Peter with story after story about himself and Neverland and their past adventures. She told him of Neverland's high waterfalls and jungles dense with vines, its lagoons peopled with mermaids, its hulking Black Castle all made of crumbling walls and towers and turrets, its volcano continually spewing red molten lava, and the pirate ship the Jolly Roger, moored just off the coast.

She told him of the pirates. Most importantly, Captain Hook, of course, with his long curling black hair, the hook where his hand had been, and his piercing eyes, blue as forget-me-nots. Hook, she explained, liked to dress quite smartly and surround himself with fine things, fancying himself rather a gentleman even as he ruthlessly killed anyone who annoyed him or got in his way. There was also Smee, Hook's second in command, who was rather cowardly if truth be told, with his small wire glasses, his gray beard, his large belly, and his hatred for the ship's parrot who hated him equally much in return. And then there was Noodler, with his hands on backwards, who seemed rather charmingly innocent in his love of card-playing and stories, despite being a bloodthirsty pirate. And Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, who merrily rode the complex contraption which played Peter's "Requiem Mass" at the Black Castle. And one must not forget Alf Mason, so ugly his mother had traded him for a bottle of muscat.

Peter noticed that his wounds continued to heal, continuing to respond to the stories in strange and mysterious ways. The sharp pain inside his middle slowly became less bothersome, the throbbing of his leg lessened slightly, and the terrible ache in his head gradually faded somewhat, as well.

He was still decidedly uncomfortable and driven quite mad by being so little able to move about, but Wendy's stories moved and twisted and unfurled within him such that he somehow knew that all would be well if he only listened long enough.

And it was not only his body that was healing. He was remembering more every day.

He remembered Lost Boys, and Tinker Bell, and the secret hide-out, and Princess Tiger Lily, and the pirates. The memories were still rather vague, to tell the truth, but they became clearer with every story Wendy told.

* * *

Unfortunately, Wendy was not able to spend all of her time in Peter's room. Though he was not attending Peter's injuries, Dr. Carew still dined with them frequently at luncheon as a purely social visit.

Wendy was not only forced to dine politely with the horrible man, she was also upon occasion required to play the piano for Dr. Carew and Aunt Millicent in the drawing room when the meal was finished, while the doctor suavely complimented Aunt Millicent on her niece's accomplishment in the musical arts. Wendy had a slight cold, and her coughing would upon occasion interrupt her playing, much to her aunt's disapproval. Illness was so very impolite, after all.

On some days, Aunt Millicent gave Wendy the freedom to take her luncheon upstairs in the guest room with Peter, but Wendy rather feared this kindness was only in an effort to spend time alone with the handsome doctor who continued to strike Wendy as vaguely sinister, though she could not explain why.

In fact, Aunt Millicent's infatuation with the doctor had seemed to grow only more intense with time. In fact, when Dr. Carew grew a rather dashing mustache and small pointed beard, Aunt Millicent complimented him quite embarrassingly much, such that Wendy was quite ashamed for her.

Wendy, however, found that with this new beard and mustache, the doctor seemed even more familiar. When dining at the table with him, she tried to examine his face as closely as possible without drawing attention or seeming rude. She discovered that he had an odd mark on his left earlobe, which looked almost as if it had been pierced, though certainly that could not be possible. Proper English gentlemen, after all, do not wear ornaments through their ears.

At length, still unable to decide why Dr. Carew looked so very familiar, she decided that she must have at some point seen his face -- or one remarkably like it -- in some very different setting, which change of circumstance might make him more difficult to place. He did look so very frightfully like every other gentleman of their acquaintance, after all, in his starched and pressed suits and his fashionable hamburg hats, with his dark hair so tidily parted in the middle and slicked with brilliantine.

And, in any case, the doctor's face seemed far less important than Peter's injuries and lack of memory. And so, unfortunately, Wendy devoted less time to the problem than she might have.

* * *

"Tell me about how I killed Hook!" demanded Peter one morning after his breakfast.

Wendy grinned with surprise. "Why, Peter, you sound quite cheeky this morning! What happened to the hesitant fellow I met on Oxford Street so many **months** ago?"

"Hesitant? Me?" Peter scoffed, for indeed, much of his youthful attitude had been returning to him along with his health and memories. "You must have been imagining things."

Rubbing his head -- for it did still ache rather atrociously upon occasion, as did his leg -- Peter repeated, "Tell me how I killed Hook!"

"Well," Wendy said ironically, "since you asked so **nicely**..." but Peter was completely immune to her tone, and simply sat up eagerly in his bed, waiting for the tale to begin.

"Well, you see, Hook had captured myself and the boys, and he wanted to know how you had taught me to fly."

"How **did** I teach you?" Peter asked, though he already knew the answer, because Wendy had told this story before. And, in any case, he had begun to remember some of it.

In truth, he just wanted to hear it again, as Wendy told it.

"I said only that you think happy thoughts and they lift you into the air, but he wanted to know the rest, and so his hook was at my throat and my smallest brother Michael was frightened in the extreme that I might be killed. 'Fairy dust!' he cried. 'You need fairy dust!' Hook wanted to find out if unhappy thoughts would make you unable to fly, and so he shouted, 'How if his Wendy walks the plank!' Oh, Peter, I was so very frightened! But I did not weep or cry out. And when I at last fell from the plank, you caught me!"

"Of course I caught you!" Peter bragged.

"Yes, Peter, of course you did. But then Hook caught hold of Tinker Bell and sprinkled her dust upon himself and just the thought of killing you was enough to send him soaring up into the air! And so the two of you flew all 'round the ship, clashing swords with a mighty clanging, over and over again. You spun and soared and it was really quite amazing!"

"That's me!" Peter grinned, making Wendy laugh.

"But then Hook somehow brought you down, and sent you crashing to the deck!"

"How?" asked Peter. Wendy was never able to answer this question, but he always asked, on the off chance that this time she would know. He had not been able to remember this part, himself.

"I'm afraid I don't know, Peter. You never told me, and I was rather occupied in a sword fight with another pirate at the time, so I did not hear."

Nodding with disappointed acceptance, Peter asked, "So what happened next?"

"Well, you were on the deck, Peter, and you weren't even moving! You just lay there, and Hook raised up his arm, and his eyes began to glow red, and at the last moment I broke free from the pirate who held me prisoner, and I grabbed his arm, the one with the hook attached, and stopped him. But then he threw me to the deck beside you. And I ... I kissed you. And ... then there was the most wonderful explosion and the pirates were blown into the air and the sea, and you flew again, and fought Captain Hook so gallantly, until he became horribly discouraged, quite losing the ability to fly, and at last was swallowed whole by the crocodile."

"You kissed me?"

"Yes, Peter, I did." Wendy blushed slightly at discussing this so frankly.

"I wish I could remember that part," Peter said pensively.

"Well," Wendy was blushing a bit more now, "I'm sure you will remember everything eventually. You've already remembered so much more than you did when I first saw you on Oxford Street."

Peter nodded absently, apparently deep in thought.

"Wendy, I think you should kiss me now."

"What?" gasped Wendy, shocked by this sudden pronouncement.

"It helped before, so maybe it will help now, too. Maybe I would be completely healthy and have all of my memories if you kissed me again."

Thinking back on when she had kissed him while he was still unconscious, Wendy admitted apologetically, "I do not think that would work, Peter."

"Well, where is the harm in trying?" Peter's smug grin clearly said that he was certain he had won the argument.

Shaking her head slightly at Peter's recovered arrogance, Wendy could not help but smile. Though somewhat grown-up, he was so much like the Peter she had first known!

Glancing first back at the doorway to be sure they were unobserved, even by Lottie, Wendy then leaned accommodatingly closer to the bed, and Peter raised his face toward hers, his lashes fluttering closed as their faces drew near together. Their mouths met gently, her lips soft against his, both their eyes closed, her hand resting lightly upon his arm, Peter's hand reaching up to lay flat against her cheek.

The kiss lasted a long moment, and then Wendy pulled away, blushing in her chair beside the bed.

"Well?" she asked shyly. "Do you feel any different?"

Peter frowned in thought, paying attention to each part of his body in turn. "I feel sort of ... tingly ... and ... maybe a little warm. Do you think that means anything?"

Wendy blushed more deeply, for she felt a bit tingly and warm, herself. "I don't think so, Peter. I'm afraid it will still take you some time to heal."

Putting his hands behind his head and reclining back upon his pillow, Peter reasoned, "Well, it was worth trying." _Maybe it needs to be done more than once, in order to heal me,_ Peter thought to himself. But he wasn't going to ask again. Let Wendy ask next time. In any case, he was still pleased to have gotten his way in getting Wendy to kiss him.

Staring up at the ceiling, Peter thought that this kissing thing might be nice again, even if it didn't heal him, but he certainly wouldn't say so to Wendy.

* * *

Several days later, after Wendy had coughed for the third time during luncheon, Dr. Carew turned his shrewd blue eyes in her direction, commenting, "You should let me examine you, Miss Darling, for that **cough**."

Not wanting this horrid man near her any more than absolutely necessary, Wendy assured him with a polite smile, "Thank you for your concern, Dr. Carew, but it is only a cold."

"One cannot be too careful with such things, Miss Darling. Be sure to have no fire in your room tonight, and stand about a while in evening dress with the windows closed. That should help the cough to clear. If it has not dissipated within the next week, you really should submit to an examination."

Gritting her teeth, as was so often the case in the doctor's company, Wendy smiled stiffly.

Before she had chance to answer, however, Aunt Millicent declared, "Oh, we should be so very grateful to you, Dr. Carew. It is so kind of you to be concerned of Wendy's delicate health! Perhaps we should set an appointment for Thursday afternoon, lest your schedule become filled?" Since Thursday was one of the days when Dr. Carew did not as a rule come to luncheon, Wendy knew that this was merely a ploy to bring the man into the house an additional day of the week.

But, being a polite young lady and unwilling to shame her aunt before company, Wendy did not object, and only smiled silently, betraying no visible indication of the decidedly unfriendly thoughts within her head.

When they stood to adjourn to the drawing room, where Wendy would no doubt be pressed to play the piano for their enjoyment, Aunt Millicent noticed the front of Dr. Carew's vest, and its lack of watch chain.

"Dr. Carew," she began in some confusion and concern, "you do not wear the watch I gave you as a gift. Has it been lost or broken?" Wendy had, in fact, noticed that the doctor had never worn the watch in her sight, and had wondered at the reason.

Hesitating a moment, Dr. Carew evasively replied, "I rarely have need of a watch, Miss Tilney. It was an exceedingly **thoughtful** gesture, and very much **appreciated** , but I simply prefer not to carry a watch. It is something of a ... personal eccentricity, you might say."

In truth, the watch had been smashed and discarded with the rubbish on the very day it had been given him, but Aunt Millicent and Wendy had no way of knowing this, and it would have been exceedingly rude of Dr. Carew to say so. It was, in fact, exceedingly rude of him to have even **done** so, whether he admitted it or no.

Aunt Millicent, however, had no need to know the full extent of Dr. Carew's ingratitude. His purposeful failure to wear the watch was, in and of itself, a grave slight to her. She had given him a token of her affection, perhaps rashly, perhaps imprudently, and he had spurned it. If he thought kindly of her at all, he would have worn it simply to honor her consideration in giving it to him.

Of a sudden, Aunt Millicent found herself questioning Dr. Carew's debonair charm, suddenly wondering whether she had been embarrassing herself in believing that such a young and handsome man might enjoy her company. Had she made herself ridiculous, in believing that some gentleman might at last court her? Had she become the topic of gossip? Had she made quite a fool of herself?

"I am afraid I have a prior engagement this afternoon," Aunt Millicent lied stiffly, her mind racing and her heart aching rather sore. "We shall not have the time to enjoy Wendy's lovely piano playing today."

The sly Dr. Carew knew when he was being asked to leave, and so he began his way to the door. "I shall see you both on Thursday next, to examine Miss Darling's health," he smiled charmingly, knowing that his hold on the elderly spinster had most likely slipped, but ruthlessly determined to make every effort to regain his grasp.

After he had been ushered from the house with every false politeness, Dr. Carew stood beside his carriage and looked back at the closed door, and then up at the window, and as he looked at them his eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, glinted with a merciless violence which, had she seen it, would have made Aunt Millicent's blood run cold in her veins.

And if Wendy had seen it, she would have at last realized where she had encountered this face before.

* * *

Once Dr. Carew had gone, Aunt Millicent silently retired to her own private bedchamber to be alone with her forlornly disappointed thoughts, and to weep -- if truth be known -- more than a few lonely spinster's tears.

Wendy, not knowing the extent of her aunt's current emotions, quite cheerfully went up to Peter's room, glad that the unpleasant part of her day was finished, and she might now look forward to spending the afternoon and evening with Peter.

She had not expected, however, that Peter would cry out when he saw her, coming quite near to climbing -- or perhaps falling -- out of the bed, even with his leg encased in plaster. "Wendy!" he cried.

Wendy ran to the bed, taking Peter in her arms and asking frantically, "What is wrong, Peter?"

"I remember!" Peter looked into her face, and his eyes were shining with unshed tears. "I remembered what happened to Neverland, Wendy." His words flew so quickly that Wendy almost had difficulty understanding him, but she watched his face anxiously as he spoke.

"I remember," Peter moaned piteously, "I remember ... Neverland **died** , Wendy. I don't know why, and I don't understand how, but ... it ... it ... it died. Neverland **died**." And at that, his tears slipped from his eyes, sliding down his cheeks, and Peter buried his face in Wendy's shoulder, and she held him as he wept.


	8. On the Subject of Neverland

"The mermaids went first," Peter explained, once he had calmed enough to speak and had embarrassedly dashed the tears from his face. Wendy sat beside him, on the edge of the bed, for he seemed to find her nearness a comfort.

"One day I went to call them with my pipes, and they didn't come. I thought they were only teasing, but ... then ... the waterfall stopped. One day it was just ... gone. I can't explain it. And then the Black Castle ... and then the volcano ... and then one day the Jolly Roger was gone. I didn't see it set sail ... it was just ... gone."

Wendy listened with confusion and horror to Peter's halting tale. How could Neverland have been destroyed? What could possibly have the power to **kill** Neverland?

"Then the fairies went," Peter continued, and tears were welling in his eyes once more. "One day, Tink was just gone. All of the rest of the fairies, too. They left no sign that they had ever been there. Tink didn't even say good-bye." Peter sniffed, embarrassed to let Wendy see him cry, but still hurt at the loss of his closest friend.

"The Indians were gone, too. I'm not sure when they disappeared. They just weren't there when I went looking for them. I was all alone. And then ... one day ... I fell asleep in my tree ... and I woke up ... in Kensington Gardens. I couldn't remember anything, and I didn't know what to do."

Wendy stroked a hand through Peter's hair, wanting to give him comfort somehow, now that he had remembered such distressing events, even while she herself was yet trying to catch her own racing thoughts.

"I didn't know what to do, Wendy. I didn't know how to get food, or where to live, or anything. I was so scared!" Peter shook his head with shame at the memory.

"Of course you didn't know, Peter!" Wendy reassured him. "You had no way to know. You had been in Neverland so very long that you had forgotten."

"I did **not** forget!" insisted Peter, though he knew that he had. Admitting such a thing hurt his pride, and so he found himself lying instinctively. He wished he hadn't said that he was scared, either.

Hearing the defensiveness in his voice, Wendy soothed, "Of course not, Peter. But it wasn't your fault." She tried to think of something that might make him feel better, wondering how she might appeal to his arrogance, how appease his injured pride. "Most boys would not have survived the night!"

Peter lifted his chin slightly, his cheeks still subtly marked by tears. "It was an awfully great adventure," he said tentatively. In truth, it had not felt great at all, but it sounded far better than admitting how cold and frightened and lonely he had been.

"I'm sure it was, Peter," Wendy stroked his hair once more, finally understanding in some small way how Peter had come to be in the state in which she had found him on Oxford Street. Poor Peter! Stranded in London with no understanding of how to live there!

"When did all this happen, Peter?" Wendy found herself quite determined to learn as much as possible, so that perhaps together they might comprehend how such a disaster might have been caused to occur.

Unfortunately, Peter's sense of time was not particularly accurate. In Neverland, time had been entirely irrelevant to his life, and so he found no use for the concept. Since his banishment to the streets of London, Peter had developed some vague understanding of time, but he still had not fully grasped its complexities.

"Very long ago," he replied, certain that this was accurate, for it seemed he had been in London nearly forever.

Frustrated, Wendy thought how to get more precise information out of the boy, and then she had an idea. "When did you start growing, Peter? Was it right away when you found yourself in London?"

Peter nodded. "It seemed to go on and on," he explained as if deeply offended. "And hairs grew in very wrong places. Look at my legs!" And, at this, Peter pulled back the blankets to show his legs beneath his nightshirt, though it must be admitted that one of the aforementioned legs was encased in plaster, and therefore illustrated Peter's point not at all. "Look!" Peter pointed, affronted, at his one bare shin. "Hairs!"

And then, pulling the blankets back up with uncharacteristic modesty and glancing away from Wendy in embarrassment, he muttered, "And they are elsewhere, too. Hairs nearly everywhere."

Biting her lip to keep in the laughter that begged to be released from her lips, Wendy nonetheless simultaneously blushed slightly at this mention of the effects of growing up. She had experienced similar effects, herself, after all.

"Was anything strange before Neverland began changing?"

Peter shook his head. "Things were a little dull, maybe. Not so many fights with the pirates, though that was probably just because Hook was dead. Not very much to do, I suppose."

Why would Neverland grow dull? The place was by its very nature a wonderful adventure, and so what could cause it to grow boring? Wendy's head was growing quite achy from trying to solve this puzzle, and so she rubbed her forehead, and then suddenly found herself coughing again. This wretched cold was a nuisance.

"Wendy?" Peter's voice was quiet and tentative, his cockiness seeming to have quite fled in the face of this terrible memory. "I don't want to talk about this any more today. Would you just tell me some stories instead? Not stories about Neverland, just stories about something else. Like the man who looked for the lady with the glass slippers." Truth be told, Peter sounded quite like a lost little boy again, and not at all like a young man, and this was of course because in his heart Peter Pan had never grown. He was still the same lost boy he had always been, only rather taller.

"You remember Cinderella?" Wendy was surprised, for it seemed so very long ago that Peter had listened at the nursery window.

"I tried to remember," admitted Peter. "But now I can just have you tell it to me again, and I don't have to try."

Laughing a very welcome small laugh after so many tears and worries, Wendy proceeded to tell stories, sitting ever on the side of Peter's bed, with his hand sometimes in hers.

She told of Cinderella and her battle with the beautiful pirate queen, Red Maggie, who wore a patch over her left eye and had long flaming red hair that flew about her when she fought, so that she looked as if she were on fire. The battles between the two women were fierce and thrilling!

Wendy also told Peter of Sleeping Beauty, left slumbering in a dank cave, through which ran a dark and mysterious river, teeming thickly with pale blind fish which had never been touched by the rays of the sun, but which could devour a person's flesh entirely in three minutes, leaving nothing but a clean white skeleton, which would then sink to join many others at the bottom of the river.

She also told of Snow White, and of her pet wolf which had been forsaken by its parents, and which cleaved to her side and protected her always against any danger. For it may be noticed that Wendy's imagination, once stimulated again, had taken over, quite as it had done when she was a child. It flowed through her like a magical river. And, through her, into Peter.

That evening, Aunt Millicent did not emerge for dinner, which was most unlike her, for she believed strongly in the importance of keeping a strict routine. Wendy wondered after her aunt's well-being, but did not wish to intrude by knocking upon her door. Instead, Wendy quietly took dinner to the guest room upon a tray, and she and Peter dined sitting together upon the bed, as if it were a picnic. And as they picnicked, since she had little appetite, Wendy continued her stories, and Peter listened with eager ears.

* * *

That night, Wendy dreamt of Neverland again, but it was not at all as Peter had described it. Instead, it was as lovely and thrilling as ever, with the sound of cannon fire echoing from the distant Jolly Roger, scores of fairies flying through the air in their graceful dance, lush exotic flowers perfuming the air with their sweet musky scent, and the Indians' fires visible through the trees, the braves' shadows long and eerie as they danced round and round the flames.

And in the center of the dream was Wendy herself, laughing with joy, her eyes wide and innocent, her small feet bare against the mossy ground, her body once again healthy and youthful, untouched by corsets or dieting, unbothered by propriety or elegant manners.

In her dream, Peter Pan -- young and rash as ever -- was holding her hand and pulling her along to the next wonderful thing he wished for her to see, smiling his familiar, mischievous smile, his sea-blue eyes shining delightfully in Neverland's bright moonlight.

When she woke in her woefully familiar bed, Wendy's first thought was a sharp stab of intense longing, a desperate wish that she could remain in that marvelous world with Peter Pan for always.

But her second thought, following immediately after, was resignation and grief, the acceptance that if what Peter had said was true, then Neverland was forever gone and she might never return.

And, anyway, Wendy knew all too well that she had grown too old and could never be that wide-eyed young girl again. Even if Neverland lived, it would not live for **her**. She was forever banished ... by her own childhood choice to return and grow up.

Curling up on her side, Wendy closed her eyes and willed herself to dream again of Neverland, to return to that world where all had been beautiful and exciting, that magical world where she had been most truly happy.

And, while Wendy slept, while Wendy dreamt, the exotic flowers in a faraway land suddenly began to bloom once more.

* * *

Over the next several days, Wendy spent most of her time in Peter's room, except while she slept. Aunt Millicent was quiet and introspective, not interested in talking or sewing together as they had wont to do in the past. Instead, she urged Wendy to do as she liked with her time.

Occasionally, Wendy would come downstairs to find her aunt upon the divan with a novel in her hand, her eyes looking elsewhere as she sat motionless and quite clearly heartbroken. But whenever Wendy attempted to offer any sort of comfort, Aunt Millicent merely waved her away with vague thanks, and returned to her melancholy.

Wendy hated Dr. Carew even more for what he had done to poor Aunt Millicent, who now seemed quite broken by the experience of having known him. To have developed hopes, after such a very long time, only to see them dashed and -- even worse -- proven ridiculous was a terrible blow to the poor woman.

Unfortunately, the following week Thursday at length did arrive, and along with it arrived Dr. Carew, ostensibly to examine Wendy regarding her cough. Aunt Millicent stayed in her bedchamber with the door closed, and instructed Lottie to answer the door and accompany the doctor to Wendy's room.

"The lovely Miss **Darling** ," greeted Dr. Carew with a carefully charming smile as he entered her room. "How are you feeling?"

"I am quite well, doctor. I have no need of your attentions." Wendy was rather impolite in the curtness of her reply, if truth be known, but she felt quite justified in speaking so. She had, in actuality, been feeling rather unwell, but she did not wish to keep herself in this man's company any longer than was absolutely necessary. He caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. There was something vaguely menacing about him, but she had not yet been able to pinpoint what it was.

"No **cough**?" inquired Dr. Carew with a disbelieving arch of one eyebrow.

Unfortunately, Wendy's cough chose that exact moment to emerge, making it impossible for her to lie.

"Sit upon the bed, my dear, and let us have a **listen**." Dr. Carew drew out a strange instrument, placing cords into his ears and then pressing a cold disk to Wendy's back. "Breathe deeply, my dear. That's it."

After looking down Wendy's throat, making her stick out her tongue, and pressing the cold thing against her back more than once, the doctor at length stood before her with a very serious expression. "You, young lady," he began somberly, pausing for dramatic emphasis before concluding, "have nothing but a simple **cold**." And then he smiled, as if this were some great joke.

Wendy did not laugh. "I know," she replied coldly. "I have been saying so from the first." In truth, Wendy had been growing increasingly worried that something more serious was wrong, for she slept very ill and had lost all her appetite. She felt only slightly relieved by Dr. Carew's pronouncement, for she trusted his judgment not at all.

"But," Dr. Carew interrupted her thoughts, "your cough is quite bothersome and has been irritating your throat. We would not want to allow that **beautiful** singing voice to be damaged." Wendy scowled. Without Aunt Millicent to rebuke her by word or look, Wendy remained only barely civil to the odious Dr. Carew.

"I am prescribing for you a dose of morphine each evening before bed," the doctor explained with a solicitousness that seemed rather studied. "It will quiet the cough. Continue the treatment until the cough has bettered. And I shall visit again in two weeks' time to check on your progress."

"I am certain that will not be necessary, Dr. Carew."

"No, no, I **insist** , my dear. It would not do to allow yourself to become seriously ill!"

Before departing, Dr. Carew also spoke to Lottie a moment, recommending that the delicate Wendy be protected from outside germs and contagion by staying as much as possible inside the house, and keeping the windows always shut.

And so when Dr. Carew departed with his small discreet bundle of payment which had been left politely upon the table in the entryway, he craftily promised to return in two weeks, little though any member of the household wished his presence among them.

Politeness, unfortunately, did not permit Aunt Millicent to enlist the help of a different doctor and dismiss the services of Dr. Carew. For to do so would only draw attention to her own previous foolish behavior and hopes. And so she simply drew courage to face him upon future occasions if Wendy's health so required, for she would not hide within her room to avoid his company again. This was her own house, and she would not be driven into hiding.

In the meantime, Aunt Millicent dutifully latched all windows in the house and pulled all of the thick curtains securely closed against any potential drafts, determined to do everything possible to ensure her niece's health. She would not allow her judgment to be clouded against the doctor's advice, just because her hopes had been so sorely disappointed.

* * *

In fact, it was not only Aunt Millicent who had been suffering melancholy. The tone of the entire house had been quite low, as even Peter had been rather subdued.

Since he had told Wendy of the dreadful fate of Neverland, Peter had been less animated than before, seeming often almost to brood, little though this suited him.

Now that he had begun to remember himself, he knew very well where he belonged, but it now seemed that he could not return there. It appeared that Neverland was gone, and he would be ever confined to this dreary world of rules and expectations, soot-caked chimneys and noisy motor cars, and everywhere nothing but grown-ups. Remembering the children he had encountered upon the streets of Whitechapel, Peter despaired even of the youth in this place, battered and hungry and not at all merry.

How he longed for Neverland! How he longed to be once again a boy, young and healthy and free of all care!

But no. He was here. Forever. It seemed a most horribly dreadful prospect.

His only gladness was that Wendy was with him. As his memories had begun to return, his attachment to her had grown ever stronger. He remembered now how he had wished for her to stay with him in Neverland, to be with him always. He remembered, too, when she had left, and how he had missed her.

As she continued to regale him with stories, Wendy watched Peter's changes with curious, wondering eyes. Was it possible that her stories somehow healed him? She had thought perhaps that he was simply healing quickly for some other reason, perhaps the inherent magic of his being, but she could not deny the sight of Peter's bruises fading before her eyes, ceasing in their change when she paused in her story. Some strange magic was happening, of that she was sure.

As the days went by, and many stories were told, Peter's health improved such that, in time, all of his injuries seemed entirely healed. He was excessively frustrated with the plaster upon his left leg. It was no longer necessary, but it inhibited his movement and itched abominably. He loathed the thing most passionately, and knocked upon it often with his fist, as if to break it open.

Checking Peter's head injury one morning only to find it quite healed, Wendy whispered to herself, "It is as I suspected!"

"What is as you suspected?" demanded Peter. He was feeling particularly fractious, for he was simply aching to be up and racing about, but the plaster upon his leg hindered him most provokingly.

"You shan't believe me if I tell you," Wendy sighed.

"I always believe you," countered Peter truthfully. "So tell me."

Wendy sat on the edge of the bed and gazed wonderingly at Peter's forehead, where once such a horrible wound had been. It was now smooth and clean, as if nothing had ever been the matter at all. "I think my stories have been healing you," she explained hesitantly, expecting laughter.

But Peter only perked up curiously. He shifted slightly in the bed, so that he was sitting up slightly more. "How?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Wendy replied, but something in her voice told Peter that she was not telling the full truth.

"I think you do," he challenged bluntly. "Tell me!"

Wendy shook her head slightly in apology. "I ... I know what I **believe** ... but it makes little sense."

Shrugging, Peter insisted, "So? Tell me."

"I think," began Wendy, hesitating before continuing, "I think when I tell stories about you, you ... become more like the you in my stories. But I don't know how that could be possible."

"So if you told a story that I had green hair, then I might suddenly have green hair?" Peter seemed intrigued by this possibility.

Wendy made a face. "I suppose so. Perhaps. All I know is that I tell stories of you being young and healthy and arrogant, and you grow more so with every story I tell."

Peter asked quickly, "I grow younger, as well?" He did not seem at all surprised or offended to hear that he grew more arrogant. In fact, he barely noticed that Wendy had said so at all. But the idea of growing younger did immediately catch his attention.

Reluctantly, Wendy nodded. "Yes, Peter. You are younger now than when I first spoke with you on Oxford Street. You then seemed somewhat older than me, but you now look perhaps my own age. It is clear in your face, and you have grown shorter as well."

Quite accustomed to magic and unexplainable mysteries, Peter merely nodded and smiled with satisfaction, pleased that he should soon be quite himself again. He apparently needed only ensure that Wendy continued to tell stories. Well, that was easy enough.

"Tell me a story," Peter demanded abruptly, squirming in his bed in a vain effort to find a comfortable position. A plaster cast, as anyone who has ever broken a limb knows frightfully well, simply cannot be made comfortable by any contortion of the body.

Surprised by this sudden command, Wendy blinked a moment before replying patiently, "What story would you like to hear, Peter?" She knew that her stories made his convalescence more tolerable, and she could see that the plaster cast was plaguing him today, so she was disposed to be particularly kind.

Thinking about what Wendy had said about her stories making things happen, Peter contemplated quickly. What changes would he like to see occur? What would he like to have happen?

"Tell me about when Hook nearly defeated me on the Jolly Roger," Peter commanded. "When you kissed me." He grinned mischievously.

A faint pink flush rose on Wendy's pale cheeks, but she returned Peter's smile and began her story. She started when Peter had saved her from walking the plank and described the Lost Boys tied up together, Hook sending all of the pirates into the rigging, Peter and Hook engaging in their flying battle, etc. She once again could not explain how Hook had succeeded in bringing Peter down, but she did describe with heart-breaking poignancy her own horrified, disbelieving reaction when Peter came crashing to the deck of the pirate ship.

When at last she came to describing the kiss she had pressed to Peter's lips, the faint blush stained her pale cheeks again, and she kept her description perfunctory.

"But what was it like?" asked Peter boldly.

"What was what like?" countered Wendy.

"The kiss. What was it like? I don't remember it, you know." This was not precisely accurate, for Peter had in fact remembered the kiss, but he wanted to hear Wendy tell about it anyway.

Wendy's blush deepened, but when she began to talk it was as if she quite forgot herself. "It was ... very soft. Your lips were warm, and when I pulled away your eyes opened and you looked up at me ... and at that moment I knew how you felt about me, and I did not need to hear the words."

"What words?"

Wendy started. She had nearly forgotten that Peter was there, lost as she was in her memories, and she now felt rather embarrassed at having shown so much of her own feelings.

"What words?" Peter repeated.

Coughing weakly into her handkerchief for a long moment, Wendy then looked at Peter and bit her lip nervously. "You said you had never loved, that even the sound of it offended you," she explained.

Peter nodded, waiting for more.

Wendy took a deep breath and admitted softly, "After I kissed you ... I thought I saw ... love ... in your eyes." She looked down, not wanting to see Peter's expression in reaction to her words.

A long silence stretched between them. Wendy eventually looked up at Peter's face, only to find him watching her expectantly. Puzzled, Wendy asked, "What is it, Peter?"

His brow furrowing slightly, Peter sulked, "You said that when you tell me stories, then what you tell in the stories happens to me. Right?"

Confused by this strange change of subject, Wendy nodded bemusedly.

"I think you're wrong." Peter's sounded sorely disappointed.

"What makes you think that, Peter?"

"Well, you didn't kiss me," Peter replied simply, sounding, if truth be told, rather disgruntled. "You kissed me in the story, but you didn't kiss me now."

Wendy's eyes were wide and round with shock at Peter's words. "What?" Her voice emerged as a rather undignified squeak.

If he was going to be stuck in this horrible place, Peter was grateful that he would at least have Wendy. And, anyway, he'd been becoming rather fond of kisses, loathe though he would have been to admit it aloud. But this storytelling hadn't worked at all as he had expected, and his plan to make Wendy kiss him again had failed. And so, at that moment, losing patience, Peter leaned forward, placing one hand flat upon her cheek as she had done to him so long ago, and kissed Wendy himself.

Wendy's eyes remained open for a moment, so surprised was she by this unexpected move, but her lashes then fluttered closed and she simply enjoyed the warmth and softness of Peter's lips against hers.

When at last he pulled away from her, Wendy's eyes stayed closed a few moments, but when she opened them she saw Peter looking at her, and he had that same expression in his eyes, the expression she remembered from Neverland.

"I think you were right, Wendy," he said quietly, his voice grown more solemn now.

"Right about what?" Her voice, too, was hushed.

"About my eyes. About what you saw."

Peter still had not said the words, but Wendy knew what he meant, and she forgot all about the death of Neverland and Peter's mysterious healing and the odious Dr. Cardew who looked so familiar. Everything else seemed suddenly less important than this wonderful boy, and so she smiled at him and her heart beat joyously within her breast.


	9. An Unexpected Visitor

Days and weeks passed, and Wendy continued to tell Peter stories, and Peter continued to change, becoming ever more like the Peter Pan of her stories, young and merry and self-assured.

Along with his health, Peter also gradually recovered nearly all of his memories, and any remaining gaps might be blamed just as easily on Peter's own careless disregard for such things. He now remembered what Hook had said to bring him crashing to the deck of the Jolly Roger, and so that mystery was now solved for him, though he still did not tell Wendy. He did not want for her to know how much it had bothered him to think of her leaving and forgetting him.

Now that he remembered everything, he was even more pleased than he had been previously that Wendy had searched for him so persistently on Oxford Street and in Whitechapel. She had **not** forgotten him! He felt quite smug about the whole thing.

And, as more days passed, and Wendy told even more stories, Peter noticed that the plaster upon his leg gradually become loose enough that he could squeeze his leg out of it, and he was once again free of the horrid encumbrance, much to his ensuing delight. In celebration, he proceeded to joyfully race up and down the stairs repeatedly, until Aunt Millicent shouted rather desperately for quiet.

For, as you may have guessed, Peter had continued to grow younger and younger, fed by Wendy's stories, until he at last arrived once more at the age at which he had first met her. He was once again a joyful and carefree boy, who showed very little concern for this unusual transformation, since being young again felt perfectly natural, and he felt nothing but glee at being once more himself.

There was no one else to witness this transformation except Wendy, for Aunt Millicent kept largely to herself, and Lottie felt it impolite to notice. And so Wendy had known for some time that Peter was growing younger, and in truth it had saddened her, for Peter had gone from a handsome young man of her own age ... to being a boy significantly younger than she. **How** did not matter, for it was incomprehensible to her, though her heart told her that it was her stories that had accomplished this marvelous feat. 

No, what mattered most to Wendy was that Peter Pan was once more a child, while she was not. Was she to treat him as a younger brother, as with the boys? She could never feel about him as she should toward a brother, and so this was all quite quite hopeless.

Peter Pan was once more the boy of her dreams and stories, but Wendy herself was not the same bright-eyed girl who had played with him so long ago.

She remained a woman, grown up ... and growing increasingly ill.

* * *

Neither Peter nor Aunt Millicent realized how sick Wendy was becoming, for she attempted to hide her illness from them as best she could, and the sly Dr. Carew on his unwelcome fortnightly visits continued to dismissively diagnose her with nothing but a persistent cold.

Her sleep was terribly disturbed by chills and sweats, and coughing still plagued her, but the worst affliction was her lack of energy, for she felt always weak and exhausted. Luckily, circumstances had conspired to keep her always at home, most often by Peter's bedside.

But now that Peter had doffed his plaster cast and was no longer confined to his bed, Wendy had no reason to remain at home instead of resuming her previous routine of social visits to Aunt Millicent's elegant acquaintances. However, Aunt Millicent herself remained less sociable than usual, preferring to remain home and sew in the sitting room, which suited Wendy well.

Peter's healthy exuberance was rather trying on the older lady's nerves, however, and so she and Wendy sought ways to keep the boy occupied. As December dawned, an answer emerged.

The boy could put up the Christmas decorations.

Of course, since Aunt Millicent was rather particular about appearances within her well-appointed home, the task required her to work closely with the boy. This was particularly inconvenient when Wendy begged off, uncharacteristically claiming to prefer to sit quietly beside the fire with her needlework.

"Come, boy," commanded Aunt Millicent, showing Peter to the large box in the entryway, where Harry had deposited the greenery for this year's festive adornment. The box overflowed with sprigs and branches of fragrant spruce, balsam, laurel, cedar, ivy, mistletoe, and holly. The entryway smelled quite as pleasant and woodsy as any forest, and Peter felt a pang of homesickness for the wilderness of Neverland.

But his pleasure at the scent did not blind him to the fact that it seemed quite odd for this fussily-attired lady to bring pieces of trees into her tidy home. "Why do you have branches?" he asked Aunt Millicent.

"They are Christmas decorations," she explained tersely, wanting the boy to get to work without so much conversation. She showed him how to drape greenery along the woodwork in the entryway.

"What is Christmas?" he asked, following her instructions with a rather haphazard hand, undeterred by her sour face.

And so, defeated by Peter's curiosity, Aunt Millicent proceeded to explain Christmas to him in great detail, covering not only the religious significance but also the secular. Peter's eyes glazed over after a relatively brief time, for most of her explanations defied Peter's comprehension, but he was captivated by certain elements of what he did understand.

"Gifts? You give gifts?"

"Yes, gifts. Some are hand-made, and others are found in stores."

Peter had little idea what "stores" were, though the pirates often kept stores of rum and treasure, so he innocently imagined that London folk went into pirates' hoards to obtain their Christmas presents. It seemed a risky proposition, and not one he would expect from Wendy's aunt.

"That sounds rather brave," he allowed reluctantly, feeling some small increase in respect for the unpleasant older lady that she would speak so calmly of facing pirates and stealing their booty.

Pausing in her task of showing Peter how to festoon spruce branches along the banisters, Aunt Millicent looked at him, truly looked at him, for perhaps the first time. "Brave?" she scoffed. "No, my boy, it is not brave." But at the sound of that simple word, her conscience twinged, reminding her of a politeness long overdue.

Stopping Peter in his work, Aunt Millicent looked down at him with a solemn expression. "I have never thanked you for saving my niece," she said stiffly, not accustomed to feeling beholden to young men so below her in station. "She is very dear to me, and I would have been quite heartbroken to lose her."

Thinking on his own feelings toward Wendy, Peter nodded and admitted, "Me, too."

Peering at him in surprise and disapproval, Aunt Millicent told Peter firmly, "I hope you are nursing no expectations where my niece is concerned. Despite your bravery in rescuing her, you have nothing to offer her in the way of prospects, and you are far too young."

Peter's back stiffened at the words "nothing to offer her," reminding him as they did of Hook's taunt to the same effect. In truth, the comment smarted most because he believed it himself. What could he have to offer Wendy, particularly now that Neverland was gone? But he would not allow his youth to be so maligned.

"I am not too young!" he replied testily. "I am precisely the right age!"

Examining the boy through her reading spectacles, Aunt Millicent commented curiously, "You did seem rather older when first we met, for I had imagined you somewhat older than my niece, but upon closer examination it is clear that you are certainly inappropriately younger than she."

His face growing only more determined, Peter responded, "I protect her and save her, so who is to say I'm too young?"

Caught, Aunt Millicent watched the boy for a long moment, and then murmured as if to herself, "Indeed. Despite your youth, you have shown courage such as I could never have."

Thinking of her Christmas gift explanation, Peter replied easily, "Oh, I'm sure you are very brave in the face of pirates."

Aunt Millicent gasped in horror, "Pirates? Why, no! I could never!"

Frowning in confusion, Peter eyed her, and then turned to carelessly pin another lopsided laurel branch around the newel post. "I am sure you are very brave when necessary." He was being polite, of course, for in truth he had lost all ability to understand what the old lady was talking about, as all of his previous understandings seemed incorrect.

Tilting her head and watching the boy with eyes that gleamed in response to such an unexpected, and most likely undeserved, compliment, Aunt Millicent proclaimed, "You shall dine with us this evening, young man, now that your health permits."

Peter looked dubious, but shrugged agreeably, offering no thanks for the invitation, nor any recognition that such thanks might be due, as was his careless wont.

And so that evening, Wendy, Peter, and Aunt Millicent supped in the fine dining room decorated and scented with festive Christmas greenery. Wendy had little appetite, as had become usual, and so spent her time instead smiling proudly and encouragingly at Peter. Aunt Millicent ate delicately, as a fine lady should do. And Peter Pan put his elbows upon the table and slurped his soup most alarmingly, but otherwise did not offer any great offense.

Aunt Millicent, it seemed, finally approved of him.

* * *

That night, Wendy dreamed again of Neverland. She dreamt of the tall trees, their trunks bending and twisting so that they were optimally climbable. She dreamt of the flowering vines that trailed all through the jungle. She dreamt of the high waterfall, crashing into the blue pool beneath, the spray producing wild arcing rainbows in every direction.

She dreamt of swimming in Neverland's ocean with Peter by her side, showing her fantastic fishes and mysterious reefs of multi-colored coral. He took her hand and swam with her down into the coral mazes, guiding her through arches and into underwater chambers, pulling her along to see tall white towers beneath the sea.

And as Wendy lay dreaming in her ruffled, curtained bed ... far away in a magical land built by dreams and stories, a waterfall cascaded anew down a green hillside, and towers of coral began to grow beneath the sea.

* * *

And then came the evening when it all changed most unexpectedly. As Peter lay asleep in his abhorrently pink and white bed, the window latch began suddenly to turn, seemingly all on its own. Slowly, slowly, the latched wiggled and woggled and at last the window flew upon with a clatter, sending the curtains billowing into the room.

Peter woke from his sleep to drowsily gaze about him in confusion, only to suddenly leap fully awake from the bed when he saw a golden light fly haphazardly into the room. "Tink?" he cried with great hope in his heart. "Tinker Bell, is that you?"

And, indeed, the light flew toward him to tweak his ear and giggle to him, and it was Tinker Bell, just as she had always been, as if she had never ever vanished into nothing and left him confused and alone.

"Tink! What happened? Where did you go?" Peter had so many questions he was not even sure which to ask first, but these seemed the most important.

But Tinker Bell simply scolded him for being silly, and said that she had not gone anywhere, and what was he talking about? And why was he away from Neverland so long? He must come back, right away!

Peter was shocked by these developments, but he believed Tinker Bell with the easy trust that children bestow so freely, and so he immediately resolved to return with her immediately.

There was only one problem. Wendy.

Peter padded silently to Wendy's bedroom, Tinker Bell flitting about just over his right shoulder. He knocked quietly, but there was no answer. Quietly opening the door, he slipped inside and crept to her bedside. Wendy slept fitfully, sweat gleaming on her skin, but Peter did not notice, so excited was he with his unexpected news.

"Wendy," he whispered, leaning over her in her bed. Her eyes opened and she saw him there, hovering over her again, just as he had the first time she had ever seen him. He looked the same as he had done then, the light in his eyes calling to her, tempting her to follow this strange and wonderful boy wherever he might lead. "Wendy," he whispered again, joy in his voice.

"What is it, Peter?" she whispered in reply, rubbing her eyes and sitting up in bed ... only then noticing Tinker Bell beside Peter's ear. Gasping with surprise and wonder, Wendy nearly shouted aloud with happiness, but quickly hushed her own voice to say quietly, "Tinker Bell! You're alive!"

Tink, of course, thought this a perfectly ridiculous thing to say, because **of course** she was alive, and why were Peter and Wendy behaving so strangely, and Peter must return to Neverland immediately, so bye-bye!

Peter explained only the final part of what Tink had said. "I must return to Neverland, Wendy," he told her. "Tink says that it is just as always, and I don't know what has happened, but I must return."

Wendy gave a weak smile and said softly, "I am glad for you, Peter. I am glad that Neverland is safe once more, however it happened."

"But you must come with me!" Peter insisted. It had not occurred to him that Wendy would assume he was leaving alone. Why would she think that? She had seen it in his eyes, hadn't she? She knew, didn't she? She had to come with him!

"No, Peter, I cannot. I have grown too old for Neverland now. I made my choice more than three years ago, Peter, a long time ago. I must stay here." It broke her heart to say so, but looking at Peter, so young and merry, Wendy knew that she could not possibly stay with him as she now was. She would have given much to return to those days in the nursery, and make a different choice, but that time had long passed.

"No!" Peter stamped his foot. "You must come with me to Neverland. Why would you want to stay in this horrible place?"

Wendy smiled sadly and said, "I am grown up now, Peter. My Aunt Millicent needs me, Peter. She has given me so much ... I cannot leave her alone like this. My life has changed, Peter. I'm sorry. I cannot go. I **will** not go."

"Fine!" hissed Peter. "I hope you **die**!" He did not mean to be cruel, of course, but he was very angry at not getting what he wanted, and so lashed out as any selfish child might. He did not, of course, want for Wendy to die. He only wanted for her to come with him. But she was refusing him, and he was in a terrible pout over it.

"I'm **leaving**!" he announced, waiting for Wendy to attempt to stop him. When she did not, he turned sulkily to walk back toward his room, where the open window waited for him.

"Peter," Wendy called very softly, and Peter turned with a smug smile, certain that she must have changed her mind and was coming with him. "Peter, I will miss you."

That was all? She truly was **not** coming with him? Peter turned his back on Wendy and walked back to the horrid pink guest room, bidding it good-bye with a last burst of loathing. "Who wants her, anyway!" he muttered angrily, betraying in his tone perhaps more than a small amount of grief and hurt, however much he might have denied it.

And with that, Peter Pan stepped up to the window, accompanied by Tinker Bell, and flew out into the night.

At the window beside the one from which he had flown, a young woman's white face was illumined by the moonlight as she pressed her palm to the glass, as if she were bidding a sad and silent farewell.


	10. The Girl within the Woman

Wendy's health declined rather rapidly after Peter's departure. As Twelfth Night dawned and Christmas approached, her cough grew steadily worse, though Dr. Carew still insisted it was but a cold. Though his welcome there was decidedly forced, the perniciously persistent Dr. Carew began visiting the house once each week to see whether Wendy's situation had bettered.

With each visit, however, her situation had instead worsened.

Dr. Carew speculated to Aunt Millicent that perhaps Wendy had contracted some disease from the suspiciously absent young man, Peter, who had lived some time on the streets of London among the thronging poor and unwashed who carry so very many diseases.

Of course, if Aunt Millicent had been given any remote idea how many of London's thronging poor, unwashed, and ill citizens Wendy had spoken with during her searches for Peter on Oxford Street and in Whitechapel -- if she had realized how many rag-clad paupers had coughed into the air her niece breathed upon these secret expeditions -- that elegant lady would have fainted dead away. And so it was a kindness that Wendy had never told her.

And so time flew, snow fell to powder the streets, a puzzled and shushed Slightly arrived home to visit for the holidays, and Dr. Carew continued his unwelcome attentions to Wendy's health, despite his obvious lack of success in the treatment of her growing illness.

And if during his visits Dr. Carew's hair was sometimes slightly longer and more curled than was strictly fashionable, Wendy in her often fevered mind thought nothing of it, unaware that the man cut his hair afresh each morning to rid himself of the long, spiraling tendrils which now mysteriously grew anew each night while he slept. At any rate, Wendy was too ill to pay the doctor close attention, Aunt Millicent did her concerted best to never look at the gentleman while she tolerated his visits in the house, Slightly spent most of his time with the Darlings, and Lottie would have considered it impolite to notice.

It is true that Dr. Carew did offer Wendy **some** relief, for the morphine he had prescribed did indeed reduce her coughing, as well as easing her chest pain and leaving her less anxious and more able to relax. And under the influence of the morphine she often dreamt marvelous dreams, filled with the most wonderful adventures.

Indeed even in her sleep, Wendy told stories, for hers was a rare and precious gift. She was a true Storyteller. She had lost her stories for a time, her imaginative spirit dulled down by responsibility and politeness, but Peter's reappearance in her life had helped her to find her heart once more. Her stories had returned to her. And so even in her fevered sleep, even in the clutches of illness, she continued telling stories in her dreams.

She dreamt of a wolf who became her loyal friend and guardian, of a dark cavern through which ran a dangerous river filled with pale blind fish, and of Red Maggie the pirate queen.

"Didst thou ever want to be a pirate, me hearty?" Red Maggie asked her in her dreams, and Wendy flew into the air to battle the pirate queen who had been so impertinent as to question whether Wendy herself might be tempted to such a dishonorable profession as piracy.

But, in the night, Wendy woke often from her dreams shivering, her nightdress quite soaked in sweat, and she lay upon her dampened bedclothes and looked with dark, fever-bright eyes toward the window, though it was thoroughly covered by thick curtains. She wondered if Peter had found Neverland again, and if all was well.

Just as she had said she would, she missed him quite terribly.

* * *

Wendy and her aunt spent much of their time in the weeks approaching Christmas quietly working together in the sitting room, always facing away lest each see the gift the other was crafting in secret. Since Slightly spent most of his time at the Darlings' home, noisily rough-housing with the other boys, the house was as silent as ever.

Wendy wanted to make some gift for Peter, as if to do so might summon him to return, if only for an hour, but she found that she could think of no perfect gift. He certainly had no need of the mufflers or mittens she was knitting for her brothers, and she simply could not imagine him making use of a handkerchief. And so she pondered this question at some length while she sewed the knitting bag -- worked with blue silk floss and matching blue fringe -- which she planned to give to her aunt come Christmas evening.

"Am I expected to have not noticed that the boy has gone?" Aunt Millicent's voice was sudden in the quietness of the sitting room. The ticking of the clock on the mantle and the crackling of the fire had been their only accompaniments until that moment. The older lady still faced away, her attention apparently focused on the craft project in her hidden lap.

"Peter?" Wendy asked numbly. She had not expected her aunt to mention him, especially as it was now some fortnight and more since he had left for Neverland.

"Yes, the boy. Where has he gone?" Aunt Millicent's tone tried for careless, but failed. She had come to like the boy, despite herself, and she had noticed her niece's sorrow in his absence. It had taken her time to grow impatient enough to ask, but she could hold her tongue no longer.

Accidentally pricking herself with her needle, Wendy stuck her finger into her mouth to stop the blood and soothe the smarting. If only the pain in her heart were so easy to balm. She had no answer for her aunt's question, or at least none that the lady would believe, and so she simply returned to her sewing.

When Wendy did not speak, her aunt commented, "I have observed your kiss, my dear."

Pricking her finger much worse than the previous time, Wendy dropped her needlework into her lap and sucked her finger again. Her eyes were wide. Aunt Millicent had seen them? When? How? What should Wendy say in response?

But while Wendy's mind still reeled, Aunt Millicent spoke again. "The hidden kiss. It is gone from your lips, Wendy. I am not blind. There it was, quite conspicuous, in the right hand corner of your young man's mouth."

"But ... Aunt..." Wendy stammered, confused. Her cough suddenly claimed her, and she pressed her handkerchief politely to her mouth, pretending not to notice the flecks of blood that stained the white cotton. When her coughing had quieted, Wendy said softly, "You knew?"

"It is a rare thing, to find the one the kiss belongs to. You are a lucky young woman." Aunt Millicent sounded sad, and Wendy found herself for the first time wondering if her aunt had ever possessed a hidden kiss, and if she had found the one it belonged to.

"Aunt," Wendy began tentatively, longing to ask a question but unsure of how it might be received. "You said once that ... finding the one the kiss belonged to ... was to have slipped in and out of heaven ... but..." Wendy hesitated a long moment, and then finished softly, "why must it end? Why can one not stay in heaven? Why must one slip out again?"

Aunt Millicent worked the complex embroidery in her lap and thought carefully before answering. "For it is so rare a thing to find the one the kiss belongs to ... few and lucky indeed are those for whom it lasts forever."

The silence between them stretched on for some time, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire.

"He returned to where he came from," explained Wendy at last, her voice filled with grief.

"And will he return?"

Tears sprung to Wendy's eyes, but did not fall. "No. I think not."

After several tickings of the clock, Aunt Millicent offered quietly, "I once had hopes, myself, when I was younger." She would not speak of the embarrassment of Dr. Carew, but she could admit her youthful aspirations without shame.

"Hopes?" asked Wendy, blinking her tears away and politely returning to her work upon her Christmas gift for her aunt.

"I once thought that I might someday meet a tall, gallant fellow who would kiss my hand, and I would know immediately that he was the one to whom my heart belonged." The older lady sighed softly over her sewing, refusing to allow her own tears to fall. She did not often allow the full softness of her heart to show, but this evening in front of the fireplace with Wendy, it felt somehow right to speak honestly and openly. It was only they two, and it was somehow a special moment. They shared a nameless longing which united them in some secret way.

"And did you meet him?" Wendy asked, fearing that she knew the answer, for Aunt Millicent had never married.

"No," her aunt replied bravely. "I have lived my life alone and unloved. It is my own small tragedy."

Wendy began to speak, to assure her aunt that she was indeed loved by all her family, but she knew that the love Aunt Millicent spoke of was not of that kind, and so she stilled without speaking a word, not wanting to belittle the kind lady's grief.

Firming her mouth in determination, Aunt Millicent continued her sewing and explained, "But I have tried to do right by you, Wendy, for I see in you some of my own younger self. I have tried to guide you, to prepare you for finding a husband, so that you might not live the spinster's life I have lived. I would not like for you to be old and alone, as I am."

"But, Aunt! You are not old! And you are not alone! For you have me beside you, and Slightly whenever he is home on holidays. Perhaps you might even send him to school here in London, with John and Michael and the other boys, so that he might live at home and give us both more company."

Aunt Millicent's voice was quietly subdued when she replied, "Perhaps. But there is a special aloneness that comes from not having a companion for one's heart. I do not wish that for you, Wendy." After a long moment, as both women stitched and thought, the older lady concluded gently, "And so I hope that your young man returns to you, for if he is the one your kiss belongs to, then your comparative ages matter not. His prospects matter not. If you can be with the one your kiss belongs to, then you shall live in heaven, and I could not hope for better happiness for you, my dear." Tears now streamed down that lady's care-lined face, but she blotted them hurriedly with her lavender-scented handkerchief, for a true lady must avoid blotchiness if at all possible. Tears are rarely becoming.

Surprised by her aunt's romantic heart, as well as by her benediction, Wendy stared down at the needlework in her lap and knew not what to say. At last, she said sadly, "I do not think he will return, Aunt. He is but a boy, and I am too old now to go with him, however much I might wish to do so. I am a young woman now, and not a child. His world is beyond my reach." Her cough rose again, and she pressed her handkerchief quickly to her mouth. When the fit had passed, she was weak and breathless, momentarily abandoning her sewing to lie back upon the divan and rest until she could once again draw breath without painful effort.

"I once wished only to grow into a **lady** ," confided Aunt Millicent, gently steering them away from the subject of the missing boy in hopes of relieving her niece's distress. The coughing grew worse with each day, it seemed, and she feared most terribly for the dear girl's health. "And now I find that I oftentimes, if only in my most private thoughts before sleeping, wish that I could return to my girlhood once more. For when I was young, everything seemed possible."

Thinking of Peter Pan and her childhood decision to leave him, to return home and grow up, Wendy could only nod helplessly, hopelessly, tears sliding silently from her eyes and trailing down her cheeks to drip upon the blue-fringed knitting bag which was to be Aunt Millicent's Christmas gift. 

_If only I could be a girl again,_ Wendy thought, _and go once more with Peter, this time I would not abandon magic so readily when it was offered to me. I would embrace it and treasure it with all my heart._

_If only I could step inside a story and never come out._

But Wendy knew that she could not, for Neverland and Peter Pan were lost to her now. Womanhood and reality were what remained.

Not knowing her niece's thoughts, Aunt Millicent murmured quietly, "But perhaps everything is possible still, in the right light, with the right gentleman," for in some secret part of her heart Aunt Millicent yet believed in mysteries and magic, and she wished most devoutly for her niece's happiness, however it might be achieved.

But, thinking back on her last conversation with the Peter boy, Aunt Millicent remembered thanking him for rescuing Wendy from danger. Now it seemed that the girl -- quietly weeping with her face turned away -- was in danger again, though this time from ill health and a broken heart, and Millicent Tilney had no idea whatsoever how to help her.

And, this time, Wendy's gallant young Peter Pan was not here to come to the rescue.


	11. Christmas

Christmas morning dawned cold and bright, fresh snow blanketing the streets and roofs of London below when Wendy stood at her bedroom window. The large stained-glass window that framed her thin, nightdress-clad body was festooned with fragrant spruce and cedar, tied here and there with red silk bows. The door and mantle, as well, wore holiday greenery, for every room in Aunt Millicent's fine house declared that this was Christmas time.

The house below was all a-bustle in preparation for the evening's festivities, for the entire Darling family would be joining them for dinner, as well as Dr. Carew, who had been invited before the dreadful pocket watch perfidy. Unfortunately, it would be exceedingly rude to withdraw an invitation once extended, and so he was yet expected to attend. In any case, a single man with no family should not be so uncharitably abandoned to spend Christmas alone, and so the Darlings too had invited their long-befriended family physician, the same Dr. Woodhouse who had treated Peter in the hospital. In doing so, they pleased Aunt Millicent by rounding out the expected number of guests to fourteen, for she was, if truth be told, somewhat superstitious about such things, and a dinner for thirteen would have made her rather nervous.

The formal dining room was prepared with two large tables, for the eight boys would sit together at one, while Aunt Millicent, Wendy's parents, Wendy herself, and the two gentleman doctors would sit at the other.

Both tables were beautifully dressed, each with a lovely centrepiece of white chrysanthemums adorned with sprigs of holly. Wreaths of holly also surrounded the base of each silver candlestick, each of which held a white ornamental candle with a crimson shade. Overhead, the chandeliers were draped with strings of cranberries and silver paper garlands, and all around the room the archways and doorways were framed in fragrant greenery.

It was all so lovely, it seemed almost a wonderland!

In the doorway leading from the entry to the drawing room, a spring of mistletoe was even suspended by a red velvet ribbon, for Aunt Millicent would honor every family Christmas tradition.

While the finishing touches were made to both the decorations and the meal, Wendy sat before the fire and admired the tree, for Aunt Millicent had erected a most wonderful Christmas tree, as well. In the style of her youth, she had chosen to light the tree with dozens of tiny candles, instead of with the new electric lights which had recently become so popular. The candles were lovely, flickering and winking among the branches, reminding Wendy of Neverland's fairies dancing within the forest.

Wendy looked lovely in her festive red-and-white gown, though Lottie had not laced her corset as tightly as she might have, lest it irritate Wendy's cough. Her skin was pale, faint blue veins visible at her temples if one looked closely, and her now almost ever-present fever caused a noticeable blush upon both of her cheeks. The contrast between the pink of her cheeks and the paleness of her skin was striking, but Wendy was still lovely, with her shining brown hair worn up and a gentle smile upon her lips.

As the dinner hour approached, the Darlings' carriage arrived and the doorbell rang, accompanied by a merry cacophony of conversation. Wendy eagerly went to the door and opened it wide, welcoming her entire family with hugs and kisses and truly happy smiles. As everyone made their way into the drawing room, introductions were made, lest Wendy and Aunt Millicent not remember their previous meeting of Dr. Woodhouse during Peter's hospitalization.

Noticing where he stood, the white-bearded, most remarkably tall Dr. Woodhouse took Aunt Millicent's hand in his and bowed gallantly, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. At her surprised gasp and blush, he nodded upward at the mistletoe with a cheeky grin. "I am honored to again make your acquaintance, Miss Tilney," he said merrily. "I have oft heard how fine a woman you are, and I know it must be true for you to be so entrusted with the Darlings' beloved only daughter."

Blushing even more brightly, which was surprisingly becoming and made her look remarkably young and girlish, Aunt Millicent shyly withdrew her hand from Dr. Woodhouse's grasp and stepped more fully into the drawing room, where Mary Darling -- surrounded by her family -- watched with a secret matchmaker's pleased eye.

Everyone exclaimed over the tree, though the boys seemed interested only in the brightly wrapped gifts beneath it, perhaps because the packages must remain untouched until after dinner and were therefore an even greater temptation. But all agreed that the tree itself was superbly decorated. In addition to the tiny candles, the tree was decorated with apples, gingerbread, and small net bags filled with nuts and sweets. The most recent fashion would have called for glass balls with small candles inside, but Aunt Millicent preferred for the tree to reflect her own childhood memories, and so it did. At the very summit, a silver tinsel star shone down upon the gathering, as if bestowing a Christmas blessing.

Much conversation was had, and Wendy was hugged repeatedly by many rather boisterous boys who clasped her perhaps a bit too roughly, given her delicate health, but she was so very happy to see them all that she cared not at all, for she loved her family very much. Nibs, in particular, seemed to hold her close perhaps longer than necessary before releasing her rather suddenly with a curious blush.

The set time for dinner approached ... and then passed ... and still Dr. Carew had neither arrived nor sent word. It was terribly impolite. At length, Aunt Millicent was forced to instruct Lottie to remove one place-setting from the table, which quite ruined the effect of the carefully placed silver candlesticks, but the aesthetic imbalance could not be helped at this late hour. And, in truth, Aunt Millicent was not truly grieved in her heart at Dr. Carew's absence, for that man had become quite odious to her and any time spent in his presence was painful.

All sat down to dinner, and exclaimed over the roast goose, which was quite fat and delicious. Conversation was swift and jolly, and Dr. Woodhouse seemed to pay special attention to Aunt Millicent, though not inappropriately so. Hesitant after her disappointment with Dr. Carew, Aunt Millicent tried to remain distant and aloof, but Dr. Woodhouse's cheerful good humor could not be resisted, and at length she too was laughing and smiling and talking as she had when only a girl.

If Wendy did not talk so energetically as everyone else, few noticed. She smiled much, quiet pleasure clear upon her lovely face, and yet there was also a sadness about her ... a distance. In the company of so many healthy young boys, the pallor of her skin was more apparent, the fever brightness of her eyes more clear. The wise Dr. Woodhouse was perhaps the only person present, however, who realized what he was seeing. This was an evening for merriment and not for solemnity, but that tall and well-trusted gentleman resolved to speak to the girl's parents and aunt as soon as possible afterward, at some more appropriate time.

When their appetites had been most delectably satisfied, all adjourned to the drawing room to admire the tree once more and gather 'round the fireplace. The boys clamored for their gifts, and so packages were distributed to all, for there were even gifts for Dr. Woodhouse, as was only polite.

The boys received skates, wind-up soldiers, telescopes, and trumpets, as well as the less exciting gifts of mittens and mufflers and cookies. The boys' favorite gifts, however, were the different-colored pirate hats Mother had made for each of them of pressed felt, and the play scabbards and cutlasses to match.

Slightly immediately jumped to his feet and exclaimed, "Have at thee!" while attempting to impale an equally enthusiastic John, but Aunt Millicent and Father quickly urged both boys to sit down for the moment. "This is not a farm!" insisted Father, as was his wont when the boys became overly noisy. "Others still have gifts to open, and it would not do for you to destroy them with your play."

Father himself received embroidered suspenders, a chamois eyeglass cleaner elegantly bound in a crewel-stitched cover, a cut-glass inkstand, and embroidered bed slippers. He insisted that each gift was precisely what he had wished to receive, and that he could not wish for more.

Mother received a silk-lined sewing basket with various useful accessories (from Aunt Millicent, of course), as well as many very pretty handkerchiefs, some fine stationary, and a pen-wiper in the shape of a water lily. Wendy's gift for her was a strawberry-shaped pin cushion which was quite pretty enough to have been used as a tree decoration. Opening wide her arms, Mother tried to hug all of her children at once, but found herself quite unequal to eight growing boys and one thin girl. She was forced to hug them in groups of three or four, kissing each upon the cheek and smiling her lovely smile.

Aunt Millicent admired the knitting bag which Wendy had made for her and smiled a polite and patient smile at the doilies the boys had chosen (which did not suit her taste at all, for their style was far too modern). The beautiful cloak from George and Mary was immediately tried on and much admired by all present, for it suited her very well. And from Dr. Woodhouse there was a porcelain hat pin painted with roses and lilacs.

"Oh!" cried Aunt Millicent. "It is simply lovely! But it is too much!" In truth, the gift was not inappropriately expensive, but Aunt Millicent was quite unaccustomed to receiving gifts from men, particularly handsome men of an appropriate age who kissed her hand beneath the mistletoe. She was quite flustered, and the girlish blush rose to her cheeks once more.

"It is both a Christmas gift, Miss Tilney, and an expression of my gratitude that you have welcomed me into your fine home on such a festive occasion." With a self-deprecating smile, he added, "Christmas can be a very lonely time for an old bachelor such as myself, and instead I find myself surrounded by good cheer. I have you and your kind family to thank, and I am grateful."

When it looked as if Aunt Millicent might once again insist modestly that the gift was unnecessary and other such politenesses, the good doctor explained, "Mr. and Mrs. Darling gave me some idea of your tastes, knowing you well as they do. I do hope the gift is not inappropriate."

Suddenly faced with shaming not only her guest but also her family by continued expressions of reluctance, Aunt Millicent was forced to accept the gift with a gracious smile, assuring Dr. Woodhouse, "No, indeed. It is a perfectly lovely gift, and useful as well. I shall wear it gladly. Thank you, Dr. Woodhouse, for your thoughtfulness."

In reply, the doctor merely smiled and nodded his head, pleased that his gift had been accepted by their generous hostess. He even, it might be noted, restrained himself from giving Miss Millicent Tilney a jolly wink, for he worried that the lady might be offended or frightened by such an innocent expression of camaraderie.

When it came to Wendy's gifts, she received hair ribbons and handkerchiefs from the boys, a surprisingly thoughtful book of adventure stories from Dr. Woodhouse (who winked merrily when she thanked him, for he had heard the boys often tell of her youthful exuberance and had hoped to encourage her in this age of suffragettes), a lovely broach from Father, and a lovely silver thimble from Aunt Millicent.

Wendy paused to caress the silver thimble with one trembling finger, remembering the gold one she had given to Peter Pan so long ago. This thimble, however, was much more elegant, engraved around the base with her name and a faintly-stamped floral motif. It was really quite beautiful. Thanking Aunt Millicent warmly, Wendy slid the thimble into its small embroidered pouch and suspended it from a cord around her wrist, as if it were a dance card. The slight weight was comforting to her, knowing as she did that a thimble was within, regarding it almost as a connection to Peter so far away.

But Wendy's most wonderful gift of all was from Mother, who had sewn for her a handkerchief, embroidered with Wendy's name. But for the embroidery thread, Mother had used hair taken from every member of the family, shading them together to beautiful effect.

"Oh, Mother!" Wendy cried, the sheer sentiment of the gift bringing tears to her eyes, and sending her flying into her mother's arms for a deeply loving embrace. Looking about her at every beloved face, Wendy tucked the handkerchief into the embroidered pouch with her thimble and then pressed the pouch close to her heart. "I shall keep it with me always, and have each of you with me thereby." Dashing a tear from her cheek, Wendy took her place again upon the divan beside Aunt Millicent, though her hand remained pressed to her breast, and her eyes continued to shine with moisture.

When all gifts had been opened and admired, Mother played the piano and all sang Christmas carols. The boys had little patience for such slow songs as "Silent Night," and so instead everyone sang more energetic carols such as "Jingle Bells" and "Deck the Halls," with the boys leaping about and cavorting merrily along with the Fa-la-la-la-la's, making everyone else laugh at their antics ... even Aunt Millicent.

During a break in the singing, young Michael leapt to his feet and begged Dr. Woodhouse most adorably, "Will you be a pirate, Dr. Woodhouse? I should like to kill you!" at which the good doctor laughed and glanced at the boy's parents for their opinion. When Mary smiled benignly and George looked only mildly discomfited, Dr. Woodhouse obligingly took the burgundy tricorn hat from Michael's hand and went to stand in the center of the room, donning the plumed headwear and brandishing a sword with a devilish look upon his face.

Familiar with the boys' games, Dr. Woodhouse curled his right hand into a hook, wielding the cutlass in his left hand as if daring the boy to charge him. "Brimstone and gall, man!" he growled, unable to prevent a smile from touching his lips.

"Captain Hook, you shall die!" shouted Michael with a blow of his sword, showing off for the gathered company. Dr. Woodhouse countered his charge easily, and they proceeded to clash swords in an energetic display for the family, who watched with indulgent eyes.

The expression in Wendy's eyes, however, was not indulgence but shock. Dr. Woodhouse's gray beard and mustache were the wrong color, and his eyes were brown instead of blue, but the sight of the burgundy tricorn hat upon his head, pluming feathers wafting as he moved about, Wendy had been struck with a sudden suspicion.

The icy blue eyes...

The dashing dark beard and mustache...

The dislike for pocket watches...

The face which looked oddly familiar to her...

The strange and unexplainable menace which had caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end... 

No! It could not be possible! Could he truly have been disguised all this time, with the short brilliantined hair, stylish clothing, and hamburg hats? No! It simply was not possible!

Dr. Carew could not be ... could he? But then what had he been doing with Aunt Millicent? And what evil might he be planning now? Surely she must be wrong, for Dr. Carew simply could **not** be Captain Hook. For why would a pirate -- a **dead** pirate! -- be in London, masquerading as a gentleman doctor? But now that the idea had entered her head, Wendy could think of little else.

Wendy had, after all, spent rather a short period of time in Captain Hook's company in Neverland, and so perhaps she had not remembered his facial features accurately. Dr. Carew, at any rate, looked **nothing** like a pirate, with such tidily short hair parted in the center ... wearing such modern clothes and hats, politely eating mutton cutlets and commenting on the weather.

But then Wendy thought again of how much more familiar he had seemed with his dashing mustache and pointed beard. And then she remembered also the mysterious small hole in his left ear. No, fashionable London gentlemen do not wear ornaments in their ears ... but pirates **do**! 

"I feel rather tired," Wendy said suddenly, stopping Dr. Woodhouse and Michael in their duel. "I think I shall go to bed early."

Though all seemed disappointed by this pronouncement, they wished her goodnight with many hugs and kisses, and Wendy went on her way, hearing voices raised in song behind her once more, for the evening was still young.

"Turn out the lamps when I have gone," Wendy whispered to Lottie when she had reached her bedchamber, "and tell Aunt Millicent that I am sleeping if she asks." 

Luckily, Lottie had extensive experience with hiding Wendy's more inappropriate adventures, having covertly scrubbed many a soiled dress when the young lady returned from Oxford Street or Whitechapel, and so Lottie simply smiled and nodded, pleased to be of service to a lady who had been so consistently kind and respectful toward her.

"And fetch Harry!" Wendy whispered hurriedly. "I shall need a driver!"


	12. Life and Death

Harry, of course, had been sent to fetch Dr. Carew previously, both for luncheon and for his medical advice, and so was able to carry Wendy directly to that gentleman's residence. When he at length stopped the carriage before a respectable-looking home in Kensington, Wendy whispered softly, "Wait here, Harry," and then cautiously crossed the street to stand in the darkness surrounding the home Harry had indicated.

The front windows showed no light whatsoever, and Wendy for a moment despaired that the man might not be at home, despite his failure to attend Aunt Millicent's Christmas party. But as she crept through the shadows, Wendy saw one window to the side of the house through which shone some small amount of light.

The snow crunched loudly beneath her feet and thoroughly wet the train of her crimson party dress as she hurried to hide in the darkness below the illumined window. The space between the dark curtains was so thin that Wendy could see little, and so she instead pressed her ear to the glass, hoping to hear something useful.

Thoughts continued to whirl through her mind, over and over again. It could **not** be Hook! Surely she must have imagined the similarity. Hook was dead! And, at any rate, he would not be in London! She was quite certain she must have been imagining the resemblance. Her mind was often dreadfully muddled with the fever, and so she needed to learn more, to learn if it had been only her mind, or if this man could truly be the dreaded pirate she had known in Neverland.

The cold of the snow which fell upon her and the fevered weakness of her limbs made Wendy nearly trip and fall more than once, and she fought shivering chills that attacked her despite the fever. The illness which had kept her confined to home much of the past weeks now threatened to overtake her, but Wendy stubbornly held her ear against the cold glass of the window.

"Now, good Dr. Carew," the man said, and indeed his voice did sound less genteel and more of an arrogant growl, his voice deeper and less fashionably charming. "Dr. Carew, what are we to do about my **hand**? As such a skilled and educated doctor, I have every confidence that you know **precisely** what to do."

It sounded as if Hook, for she now was sure that it **must** be he, were pacing back and forth across the floor, in some agitation.

"Tell me, my **dear** Dr. Carew, where I might have fashioned a fine **hook** for myself, for I find this wretched hand quite useless to me now. And with it now most suddenly and mysteriously **missing** , I cannot venture abroad even so much as to attend ridiculous Christmas parties hosted by feeble-minded spinsters!"

He was talking of Aunt Millicent! Surely he must be! And disrespecting her sorely, which made Wendy's spine stiffen with resolve to defend her aunt's honor and goodness. It gave her yet another reason to learn what Hook was up to, so that she might somehow put a stop to it, if only by exposing him publicly as an impostor and a villain. But first she must learn what in the world a dead pirate was doing walking about in London!

Several moments passed, with footsteps the only sound. Wendy felt an almost overwhelming need to cough, but pressed her hand tightly over her mouth, for she felt certain that Hook would kill her if he knew she were there. Her body shook with the silent coughing held within by her restraining hand, but Wendy found that she felt no better afterward. Her chest was paining her, and she felt increasingly weak from standing so long, but she would **not** leave until she knew as much as possible about what Hook was up to.

"Certainly I can start again, with other marks who do not realize that my hand was present so recently. And without that insolent **boy** to interfere. Yes, that shall work **admirably**. Do you not think so, Dr. Carew?"

Who was Hook talking to? Was he talking to himself? Or was the real Dr. Carew held prisoner inside? Wendy turned her head to peer through the tiny gap between the curtains. She saw Hook, still dressed in modern clothes quite similar to her father's and any other modern gentleman's, his hair somewhat in disarray as if he had been combing his fingers through it. She could now see that it seemed rather longer than usual, and quite curly.

"No **answer** , Dr. Carew? You are such a disappointing conversationalist."

Hook paced into and out of her vision repeatedly, grumbling darkly to himself and gesturing occasionally with the glass goblet he held in his left hand, as if he had been drinking brandy.

"And, good **excellent** Dr. Carew, I hold you **personally** responsible for the fact that my memory did not return quickly enough, and as an unfortunate result" -- and here Hook's voice rose to a roar -- " **PAN IS GONE!** " And with those words, Hook furiously threw his brandy glass across the room so that it shattered, slightly jarring the curtain so that Wendy had a marginally better view of the room.

But the slight movement of the curtain was enough. For Wendy saw, propped on the floor in the far corner of the room, the person to whom Hook had been speaking.

It was the corpse of a long-dead man, his putrid, discolored flesh rotting and horrible.

Shocked at the sight, the frail Wendy gasped, her last bit of strength deserting her as her illness overtook her stubborn determination. With a small cry of distress, she fell insensible to the snowy ground, shivering unconsciously, her body drenched in an unhealthy sweat.

* * *

Hearing a sound from without, Hook frowned and narrowed his eyes, cautiously pulling aside the curtain barely enough for him to peer out. But the surrounding area outside was too dark for him to see anything, and so he walked toward his front door, a revolver in his left hand.

Opening the door and stepping menacingly onto the narrow stoop, Hook looked about for what had made the mysterious sound. Seeing nothing, he strode toward the side of the house, where he spied Wendy's red dress bright against the white snow. He recognized her face immediately, of course, and an enraged growl emerging from his throat as he took a step toward her, cocking his revolver with a menacing "click."

"Miss Darling!" another man called in dismay at that same moment, running across the street toward the front of Dr. Carew's home, for Harry had seen Wendy collapse to the ground, but it had taken him a moment to alight from the carriage.

Stepping out of the light and back inside his house to quietly close the door, Hook went once more to the window and watched with cruel and dangerous eyes as Wendy Darling was carried away by Miss Millicent Tilney's driver.

* * *

And so it was that Aunt Millicent's Christmas party was suddenly interrupted by a crashing through the front door, and the sudden appearance of Harry, hatless and distressed, carrying an unconscious Wendy Darling in his arms, her red party dress trailing upon the floor.

Everyone gasped and some cried out, and suddenly Harry was surrounded by a worried crowd of concerned family members. No one had even realized that Wendy had left the house! What had she been thinking, to leave in her condition?

Dr. Woodhouse rapidly took control of the situation, instructing Harry to carry the girl to her bed, where Mrs. Darling and Lottie should remove her wet clothing and take down her hair, dressing her instead in a warm nightdress. The doctor would see to her when she was thus more comfortably situated. 

Wendy still had not wakened, and her breathing was harsh and labored, her body wracked by painful coughing, and her skin as heated as if a fire burned within her. The poor girl tossed her head upon the pillow in distress, speaking occasionally in delirious bouts of mad mutterings.

"It's Hook!" she moaned. "Not a doctor! Not a doctor!"

"But Wendy," soothed Mother gently, unbuttoning her daughter's soaked party dress, "you simply **must** see the doctor, for you are quite ill."

"It's Hook," moaned Wendy deliriously. "Dead man! Terrible dead man!"

Lottie and Mrs. Darling exchanged concerned glances, and worked together to try to make the feverish girl more comfortable.

* * *

Dr. Woodhouse had quickly sent the boys into the sitting room, where they fidgeted and attempted to pretend interest in their new Christmas toys. All of them had seen how pale and limp Wendy had been when Harry burst through the door, and all of them were terribly worried. But they could do nothing but wait and hope that the adults would soon tell them that all was well.

While Mrs. Darling and Lottie attended to Wendy upstairs, Dr. Woodhouse spoke briefly with Aunt Millicent and Mr. Darling in the drawing room to learn of Wendy's symptoms. As they talked, Dr. Woodhouse's face grew more and more grave. "Cough?" he verified. "Loss of appetite? Fever? Night sweats? Chills? Loss of energy?" And then he shook his head in dire concern. "It sounds as if it may be the consumption, but I shall not know until I have examined her, of course."

Aunt Millicent, it must be admitted, felt rather faint upon hearing this, but she encouraged the doctor to go upstairs to examine Wendy as soon as possible, and then sank down into the nearest chair, barely looking where she was, her hand lifting to anxiously finger the cameo at her throat as she tried desperately to control her mounting fear.

Her nephew George Darling took one of her hands in his and then awkwardly patted it. He himself was dreadfully upset, but knew he must maintain strength to assist the ladies and children at this difficult time. When his wife rejoined them, Wendy's toilette complete, the three adults most concerned with her well-being sat close together and prayed.

* * *

When Dr. Woodhouse slowly descended the stairs once more, some time later, the two Darling parents and Aunt Millicent stood immediately, all watching him anxiously for some word. His kind brown eyes shone with a gentle sorrow.

"Mr. and Mrs. Darling, Miss Tilney, I am afraid I have very unfortunate news. It is indeed the consumption, and it is very advanced."

"What does that mean?" inquired Mary Darling, holding her husband's hand quite tightly and doing her best to hide the quaver in her voice.

Dr. Woodhouse gave a compassionate shake of his head and explained apologetically, "If she had been given sufficient fresh air and good nutrition earlier, it may have improved her lot, but I fear it is much too late for that now. If the windows are kept open, the fresh air may give her some relief, but it will only help to make her more comfortable as her time approaches. I am very sorry to have to give such unhappy news, particularly on such a night as Christmas."

Aunt Millicent listened in horror, thinking of the long weeks during which she had kept the windows and curtains so tightly closed on the recommendation of Dr. Carew. Surely Dr. Woodhouse could be trusted in his recommendations, for the Darlings had known him for years. But who was Dr. Carew? A stranger she had met upon the street, and then blindly trusted with Wendy's health, knowing nothing about him whatsoever. She had never even asked for his references, so charmed had she been by his flattery.

Aunt Millicent did not even notice Mary and George Darling's own expressions of grief, shared as they were between those two who had each other to lean upon, for she was alone within her own isolated world of sudden sorrow and guilt. Wendy's desperate condition was most certainly her own fault, for trusting a strange man they had met upon the street, of that Aunt Millicent had no doubt whatsoever.

And so -- lost to despair and numb to the kind doctor's comforting hand upon her arm -- that fine and elegant lady put her face into her hands and wept not only for her beloved niece ... but also for herself, who had caused so much harm through her own vanity and false hopes.


	13. Rather Lonely

During all of this same period of time, of course, while Wendy had been preparing for Christmas and growing increasingly ill, Peter Pan had returned to Neverland with Tinker Bell and had resumed his usual enjoyable pastimes, though he had at first been momentarily surprised to find the place entirely restored, as if nothing had ever gone wrong, as if he had never seen all its wonders vanish so tragically.

"Tink!" he had cried joyfully as they flew over the island in great spiraling circles. "There is the waterfall! And the volcano! And the mermaids! And the fairies! And the Indians!"

Tinkerbell had seemed to think he was behaving most strangely and making rather a big fuss over nothing. Peter would later learn that Neverland's other denizens, too, had no memory that anything untoward had happened to Neverland in the recent past. All was as it had always been.

Peter found that at the foot of his tree house he was joined by a loyal wolf who had been forsaken by its parents. "Who are you?" asked Peter. But the wolf had no name, only choosing to stay close to Peter and guard him against danger whenever the boy walked upon the ground, whenever he was not flying. For everyone knows that wolves cannot fly. Peter simply patted the wolf's fur and accepted him as a friend.

Peter quite happily settled back into the rhythm of Neverland, having many interesting adventures. Soon after his arrival, he explored the depths of a dark cave through which flowed a dark and mysterious river. Tinker Bell's light allowed Peter to see that beneath the surface the river was filled with pale blind fish which had never been touched by the light of the sun, and that the bottom of the river was carpeted with clean white bones. The cavern was an especially wonderful hiding place, and quite exciting to explore, particularly because of the constant danger of falling into the river and being devoured within three minutes by the voraciously carnivorous blind fish.

On his first day back, Peter excitedly went to call the mermaids, who came to him with much splashing and writhing in the water. They told him of the pirates' new leader, who was called "Red Maggie." And so Peter eagerly flew to the Jolly Roger, curious about this new pirate whom he intended to run through with his sword before she had even realized he was there.

And there were the pirates, just as Wendy had always described them, with the addition of a flame-haired woman whom they apparently called "Red Maggie." She was tall for a woman, and fine-boned, her skirts tied up with various cords to keep her legs free for fighting. She wore a sword at her waist, and her red hair hung down her back like a curtain of fire.

"Red Maggie?" Peter called with a laugh, as he soared in and out of the rigging, and all 'round the pirate ship.

"Who calls?" asked the woman in a growling purr. She turned her face toward him, and Peter saw that she wore a black patch over one eye, and that her cheek beneath the patch was marked with a wide white scar in a straight line almost to her chin. Aside from the scarring, she was quite beautiful.

The pirate queen drew her sword and followed Peter's flight with her eyes. "Would you be Peter Pan?"

"You've heard of me!" Peter crowed, quite pleased with this development.

"Aye. Ye are the lad who killed Captain James Hook, are ye not?"

"Aye, Red Maggie, that I am. I defeated him and he was swallowed whole by a crocodile. And I shall defeat **you** , as well!"

"Nay, lad, I think ye shall not. For ye have denied me my revenge against James Hook!"

"Revenge?" asked Peter. This was an interesting development.

"Many years ago, Captain James Hook and I battled fierce, and in that battle he did pluck out me eye," at which mention, the lady fingered the patch she wore. "He also scarred me face most terrible. And for this I must have my revenge!"

"Sorry. He's already dead. Too bad for you!" Peter gloated, laughing and swooping in arrogant circles, sometimes coming quite close to the lady pirate as he flew, sometimes tweaking a lock of her hair, sometimes walking his bare feet across the top of her head quite rudely.

"Insolent lad! Ye have taken me revenge from me! And for this I shall hunt ye and kill ye **dead**!"

"Good luck!" cried Peter, laughing merrily. "You can't even **catch** me!"

"One day I shall, Peter Pan!" Red Maggie shouted. "One day I shall!" At which point, Peter soared away, bored with the taunting, certain to return another day to gleefully clash swords.

* * *

If changes had occurred to Neverland since last he had seen it, and indeed they had, Peter did not notice, but blithely lived as if the Neverland had always been so, for indeed he did not remember that it had ever been different.

He did not notice that the stories Wendy had told him in London had somehow affected Neverland, for such an idea would never have made the slightest amount of sense to him. How could Wendy affect the Neverland? Of course she could not! And yet she had, and the proof was right before him -- in his wolf companion, in the pale blind carnivorous fish, and in Red Maggie -- though he did not choose to see it.

If he had cared to think about such things, Peter might have wondered how it was that Wendy's stories had healed him, and now also seemed to have changed the Neverland. Had she healed the **Neverland** just as she had healed **him**? How? And if so, why had Neverland died in the first place? Had that also to do with Wendy's stories? Had her stories somehow died, and taken Neverland with them? And then somehow returned it all?

Perhaps in fact it is best that Peter did **not** care to think about such things, for if he had he would most likely only have found himself in a dreadful muddle that would make him very cross. And Peter hated to be cross.

And so Peter did not think great thoughts, but instead went about his daily adventures, talking to mermaids, dancing with Indians, climbing trees, swimming down waterfalls, flying with fairies, and battling the pirates. All was quite as it should be. Peter had even found that the new pirate leader was a most enjoyable adversary, and he quite enjoyed their battles.

This Red Maggie was a brave and excellent swordsman, and her hair fanned out about her when she fought, making it look as if she were on fire. She was a worthy opponent, and her sword was quick and nimble. Though she could not, of course, compare to Peter Pan.

How could she? He was the best there ever was!

And yet, no matter how many adventures he had, Peter did not feel truly happy. It seemed that something was missing.

He told himself that it was Hook. Hook indeed **was** missing, and of course he should be, since he had been swallowed by the crocodile. Hook had been a fearsome foe, and so of course his absence would be noticed.

But Hook had been replaced by Red Maggie, who was great fun as well. And yet, no matter how many thrilling battles Peter fought against the new pirate queen, he **still** did not feel truly happy. It seemed that something far more important than Hook was missing.

"I miss Wendy," he whispered to himself one night as he stared up at Neverland's sky thick with stars. And as he said it, he suddenly knew it to be true.

But he did not **want** it to be true, and so for a long time he tried to deny it. She had refused to come with him, and he did not need her at all. She could stay in her stupid house in stupid London forever and he didn't care a single bit.

Now, Peter was exceedingly talented at lying to himself, which can be a rather useful talent, but even he could not deny the truth forever.

"I miss Wendy," he whispered sadly to the waves that crashed upon the rocks at the Mermaids' Lagoon. "I miss her."

It was true. He missed Wendy. And he wanted her back.

And so, when he at last ceased denying his feelings on the matter, Peter made a decision.

"I am going to go back and **make** Wendy come with me," he stated to no one in particular, with an emphatic nod. Remembering what the older lady had told him about Christmas, Peter took the shiniest acorn from the nearby ground, considering that a perfectly appropriate gift for Wendy, for he felt somehow that he should not arrive empty-handed.

And so, right that very moment, Peter lifted off the ground with a determined expression on his face as he flew away from Neverland and toward Wendy.

And as he flew, Peter said grimly, "I shall **not** return alone!"


	14. Voices in the Dark

Wendy woke late in the night, long after Mother and Aunt Millicent and Dr. Woodhouse had left her to sleep. The bedroom window was open wide, still framed with festive Christmas greenery, the curtains blowing in the wind, snowflakes drifting in to melt upon the floor. The fire was not lit, and there was no moon, and so the room was deeply in shadow. To protect her from the snow, Aunt Millicent had pulled the sheer curtains 'round the bed. Wendy lay within this sheltered nest, her head aching, and tried to reason what she had seen and heard that evening.

She had certainly been in no condition to venture abroad tonight, but she had felt that it was necessary and important to learn if Hook was truly here in London, and so she had done what needed doing. It had left her far more ill, however.

In her weakness and pain, Wendy found comfort in the fact that her mother had left the small embroidered pouch attached to her wrist by its silk cord. Holding the pouch within her hand, Wendy squeezed it gently, reassured by the feel of the handkerchief and thimble within, as if Peter and her family were somehow here with her. It had been kind of Mother to leave the pouch with her, rather than removing it from her wrist when Wendy had been put into her nightclothes.

As Wendy lay in her bed, thinking of these and other things, she heard a stair creak in the hall. Who would be walking about at such a late hour?

Next, Wendy heard the door to her bedroom open with a soft click, and then close again. "Aunt Millicent?" Wendy called weakly. "Lottie?"

"No, my dear Wendy," came a familiar deep and growling voice from the shadows. "It is **I**."

Wendy's eyes grew wide. She had pushed her body to its weakened limits in her earlier adventure to Hook's house, and her feverish limbs now trembled when she attempted to move them. She was quite helpless, which was an unfamiliar and terrifying feeling.

"Who is there?" Wendy cried, her voice quavering. She could see nothing of the room, contained as she was within the bedcurtains, but she could hear ominous footsteps.

"Pretense between us now would be quite **absurd** , my stricken beauty. Do you not agree?" Hook's voice came from quite near the curtains, but Wendy still could not see him. It was maddening, and she felt as if she might scream.

"Surely you cannot see properly in such **darkness** , my dear. Allow me to light the lamp." And suddenly the room was illumined, though the light shone against the bedcurtains such that Wendy still could still not see beyond them.

"You are a very **naughty** young lady, Wendy **Darling**. Peering through a gentleman's windows." And here Hook tisked with ironic disapproval. "You must have **known** that I could not allow you to expose me. You surely knew I would come to you, **sweet** Wendy." He strolled casually through the room, casting monstrous shadows upon the bedcurtains as he passed in front of the lamp.

"How could you keep a dead body in your house like that?" Wendy asked, still horrified by what she had seen.

"Well," replied the unseen Hook with a rather unpleasant smile in his voice, "in all fairness, it is **his** house. It would have been rather **ungentlemanly** of me to toss the fellow out like so much rubbish."

Footsteps sounded once more, and Hook's voice was much nearer when it purred, "And asking that question, my beauty, proves that you could **never** have been a pirate, Red-Handed Jill or no. I'm really quite **disappointed** in you."

"No!" cried Wendy, as suddenly one of the bedcurtains was pulled aside, and there stood Hook, his dark hair once again long and curled, his right hand now quite gone, revealed by his rolled-up right sleeve. His arm once more ended in gruesomely healed scars, as if his hand had been lost years hence.

He still wore a gentleman's clothing, but the neat trousers, starched shirt, tidy vest, and pinstriped jacket looked quite ridiculous now that Hook's true form had returned. He made a mockery of gentlemanliness. But, then, he always had.

Hook carefully tied the bedcurtain back, using its attached satin ribbon. He smiled pleasantly down at Wendy in her bed, and then walked once more out of her sight. He seemed to enjoy speaking to her when she could not see him.

"It has been you from the very first," accused Wendy. "Pretending to be a doctor, insinuating yourself into our lives, toying with Aunt Millicent's affections..."

Still out of Wendy's sight, Hook sighed theatrically before replying, "Oh I must admit your dear aunt's money was something of an attraction, but as time went on and I began to remember myself, I grew far more interested in **you** , Wendy Darling, and the wonderful opportunity to hurt Pan where he **feels** most."

Suddenly, the bedcurtain at the foot of the bed was pulled aside, and Hook stood grinning at her as if he were enjoying this game extremely. He once again tied back the bedcurtain by its satin ribbon.

"But," Wendy stammered in confusion, "but Peter is gone!"

"Yes, I **know** ," grumbled Hook with a disappointed expression. "I did not remember myself quickly enough to kill him. So very **disappointing** , don't you know." And then, tilting his head and eyeing Wendy with a mocking smirk, Hook continued, "And how sad for **you** , dear Wendy, to be cast aside so easily, left all alone by the boy you loved. I suppose you are too **old** for Neverland now, in any case, and so why would Peter Pan have any use for you?"

As Hook walked out of her sight once more, Wendy found herself coughing quite fiercely, shudders shaking her frail form. When the coughing came this strongly, there was little she could do to stop it. Her body began to shiver from fever and chill, and she feared that she might faint again as she had done outside Hook's house.

"That's quite a **cough** you have, my dear. Perhaps you should see a **doctor**." Hook laughed lightly before continuing, "It's quite tragic, really."

Breathing heavily after her coughing fit and wiping blood from her lips, Wendy spoke past the excruciating pain in her chest. "Tragic?" she gasped. "What is tragic?"

Pulling aside the last bedcurtain with a jerk, Hook shook his head in mock regret as he tied the satin ribbon to hold the curtain back. "Poor Wendy Darling could certainly have been saved. Alas! If only she'd had a proper **doctor** attending her ... instead of a bloodthirsty **pirate**!" And here Hook laughed delightedly, as if he had told a rather wonderful joke.

"But how am **I** to know?" Hook pondered, posing with his left hand upon the bedpost, his chin raised high as if he were standing for a portrait, rather than only terrorizing one young lady in her bed. "I have stolen only a doctor's **life** , not his medical knowledge."

Wendy began to speak again, but at the first sound that passed through her throat, the coughing seized her once more, and this time she very nearly lost consciousness. She lay prostrate upon the bed, watched Hook with eyes that were bright with fever and wide with fear.

"You would die soon enough, my **beauty** , but I tire of waiting. You might expose my schemes, of course, but my more pressing reason is that Pan is **gone**. I can now but wreak my revenge upon the one part of him that remains: his **Wendy**."

As Hook seated himself familiarly upon the edge of her bed, Wendy saw that he had a revolver in his coat pocket. But what concerned her more immediately was the syringe he set upon the bedside table. Hook reached for her arm to pull it from beneath the bedclothes, but Wendy struggled against him.

"You are too **weak** to fight me, my lovely Wendy. You may as well relax." Hook then chuckled once more as if at some private joke. "Oh, the pain this shall cause your Peter Pan! How delightfully **delicious**!"

Wendy attempted to wrench her arm from his grasp, but her strength was no match for him. "No!" she gasped breathlessly, coughing again as her throat reacted to the sound.

Holding her arm in place with his scarred stump, Hook took the syringe once more into his hand and leaned close to Wendy, tendrils of his hair falling forward to lay upon her breast.

"I have always appreciated a good **poison** ," Hook smiled into her face with a wicked smirk. "The morphine shall serve quite admirably ... though it causes no pain, which rather takes the **fun** out of it." Hook sighed, his breath brushing her face and stirring her hair.

And then with a sharp jab the needle was in Wendy's arm and she renewed her weak and futile struggles. As the deadly dose entered her arm, Hook watched her face with great enjoyment. And then when he removed the needle, Hook explained pleasantly, "It will take but a short while to do its work, my dear girl."

* * *

Peter arrived at Wendy's window, only to hear talking coming from inside. Afraid to be seen, Peter hovered to the side of the window.

Wendy's weak voice said, "But how...? You were dead..."

A deep growling voice replied, " **Was** I dead, my beauty, if I lived on in your stories?"

Peter started. That couldn't be Hook! Hook was dead! But ... but what was he talking about? Peter fought the urge to fly inside immediately to attack this possible-Hook, but decided to wait and listen a moment first, so that he might know what he was up against.

Wendy had apparently made some small sound, for the deep man's voice continued, "Oh, yes, Wendy Darling, your stories renewed **me** , just as they renewed Pan. You have even reclaimed my **hand**."

Wendy's voice was barely a breath when she replied, "But ... how? You died."

"Hmm. I suppose I did. But allow me to ask you a **question** , my lovely. Did I ever die in your heart? Or did you continue to tell my story? Even when your stories **died** , when you thought they were all **gone** , Pan and myself were not destroyed. For some small part of our story burned as the tiniest flame in the darkest corner of your heart. We could **not** be destroyed, Wendy Darling. Because **you** would not destroy us."

Peter risked a glance into the room, and indeed the man not only spoke like Hook, but looked like him as well. The long curling hair, the missing right hand, the arrogant posture ... despite the odd clothing, it **must** be Hook! But, then, was what he said true? Had he and Hook been saved by Wendy's stories somehow?

"And so when you **destroyed** Neverland, my dear..." Hook paused at Wendy's gasp, then smiled charmingly. "Did you not realize that it was **you** who killed Neverland, lovely girl? When your stories died, it died with them. But Pan and I were **cast out** , not destroyed, but with our world destroyed behind us. Nowhere to go. Because of **you**."

Peter's head was spinning with all he had heard. But as he hovered at the window lost in thoughts almost certain to make him cross with confusion, Hook had not been idle.

"A **kiss** , my beauty, my lovely storyteller, before we part. And if there is blood upon your lips, it will make them only that much sweeter." Hook's grin was quite quite wicked in the darkness as he leant toward Wendy helpless in her bed.

"Get away from her, you!" Peter screamed, flying in at the open window to hover in mid-air in the middle of the room, holding his knife in his hand and ready for battle.

Hook turned slowly, his grin growing even more pleased. "Why, **Pan**! How very nice of you to **join** us!"


	15. Heroes and Villains

Peter landed lightly upon the floor of Wendy's bedchamber, his sea-blue eyes focused intently upon Hook, who still bent over Wendy in her bed, his long hair hiding her face from Peter's gaze.

"I told you to get away from her," Peter said icily, taking a step forward with his knife in a ready grip. He looked quite as he always had in Neverland, restored to the lithe slenderness of youth, wearing his leaves and vines, his hands and feet once more quite dirty, for he had enjoyed many adventures since he had lived in Wendy's house but bathing had not been one of them.

Hook stood with an easy grace, turning to face Peter fully, his arms spread wide in a mockery of innocent explanation. "How very **cross** you seem, Pan. Have you been **thinking** again? You know, you really should abandon pastimes at which you perform so very **poorly**."

Peter began to walk slowly toward Hook, but the pirate too moved slowly away, so that they circled each other warily in Wendy's dimly lit bedchamber. Their elongated shadows danced upon the ornate wallpaper, blending and separating in an elaborate dance, just as Hook and Peter themselves had always danced together in their eternal struggle.

"Why are you here? Why have you been pretending to be a doctor?" Peter demanded. In truth, he was very confused by Hook's presence in London and in Wendy's house, but he also felt quite cocky about the fact that he had mistrusted the supposed doctor from the very first.

Hook rolled his eyes as if Peter was simply too droll for words. And perhaps he was. "You are a **fool** , boy! Nothing but a **fool**!"

"Me? A fool? Funny, I thought **you** were the one who got eaten by a crocodile," Peter gloated with a laugh.

"A minor set-back," Hook scoffed dismissively. "Your sweet **Wendy** was kind enough to bring me back, depositing me in this world where there is ever so much **more** to plunder. In comparison, Neverland was quite **lacking** in riches."

Peter watched Hook mistrustfully as they continued to warily circle each other, each taking a step that coincided with the other's. Peter had not noticed how quiet Wendy was, and if he had he would most likely have blithely assumed that she was sleeping. He had no way of knowing that, instead of mere sleep, her languor was due to Hook's lethal dose of morphine which was even now coursing through her veins.

No, Peter did not notice, and Peter did not think, for Hook had been quite accurate in asserting that thinking was not one of the boy's strengths. Peter, instead, allowed himself to be drawn into discussion with Hook, for he never could resist responding to a taunt.

"Oh **yessssss** ," purred Hook with a sly smile. "You are a fool, my boy, because you let this opportunity take **you** , instead of **you** taking **it**. You lived on the filthy streets like a beggar, while I arrived with the same lack of memory, and became quite wealthy in a rather short amount of time."

"How?" spat Peter. "By robbing and killing?" He took a quick step toward Hook, but Hook simply took a corresponding step back, and their dance continued, Peter's bare feet easily keeping step with Hook's fancy leather shoes. Always the dandy, Hook was, even without his grand ostrich-plumed hats and heavily-embroidered pirate clothing.

Hook smiled a very self-satisfied sort of smile, and bragged, "Oh, I killed one pathetic doctor, it is true, but it is really quite **simple** to obtain the benefits of living well, if you are simply willing to do what is **necessary**."

"I would rather starve!" declared Peter. "I only kill villains like **you**!"

Hook tisked and gazed at Peter with sardonic disappointment. "Oh, **Pan**. Still so full of noble intentions. When will you learn how the world really works?"

"To be like you?" Peter's chin lifted proudly. "Never!"

For it was true that, even when he had remembered nothing of Neverland or his past, Captain James Hook had been a villain through and through. An unrepentant, arrogant, bloodthirsty villain. It was simply who he was, and who he always would be.

And Peter, with the same lack of memories, had retained his honor and nobility. When he saved Wendy and Miss Crawford from the motor car, it had become clear that even when sleeping on the reeking and squalid streets of London, Peter was in his heart a hero.

It was how Wendy saw them in her storyteller's heart, and it was how they had therefore been created, though Wendy herself had never realized her power.

Hook pulled the revolver from his pin-striped coat pocket, now grinning with delight. "How **unfortunate** that you brought only such a very **small** knife, my dear boy. I think you shall find that you are quite **outclassed**."

Peter flew into the air and toward Hook, his knife outstretched with deadly intention, but Hook deflected the knife with the length of his revolver. Hook's weapon, however, would not be useful unless he could keep Pan at a distance, which would be difficult in the small bedchamber. Also, though he would have Peter believe the opposite, Hook was in fact rather at a disadvantage in this fight, due to only having one hand, and not having his hook to use as an additional weapon.

Peter flew about the room, laughing and taunting Hook, never staying in once place long enough for Hook to take aim. "I guess you don't remember how to fly. That's too bad!" And at those words, Peter flew quite close over Hook's head, using his knife to cut off a long lock of hair.

"Shall I give you a haircut, Captain Hook? You'll need one if you want to pretend to be some stupid doctor again." Peter made another pass, cutting off another lock of hair while Hook made every attempt to grab the boy to send him to the ground at a suitable distance. The revolver was proving a rather ineffectual weapon, but Hook had not expected that Peter Pan would arrive, and so he had prepared not at all for such an eventuality. He had planned only to inject Wendy with the poisonous dose of morphine, merrily watch her die, and then leave the house in silence. This was decidedly **not** going according to plan.

Long locks of curling black hair now decorated the floor of Wendy's bedchamber, and Peter flew in laughing circles around Hook. During one of his soaring swoops along the ceiling, however, Peter unintentionally flew far enough away from Hook that the pirate was able to take aim ... and fired his revolver.

"Aarrrrrrgggggh!" screamed Peter, not with the pain of the small wound in his leg where the bullet had grazed him through his leaves, but rather in rage at Hook. He soared furiously toward the pirate, his knife now held to plunge into Hook's heart.

Hook took aim as quickly as possible, most likely not accurately, only to find that Peter knocked his revolver aside, sending it flying across the room spinning across the rug toward the door. As Peter flew past, he grabbed the candlestick from the bedside table to use as an additional weapon.

Neither Peter Pan nor Captain Hook, it must be noted, paid any attention whatsoever to the soft sound of running feet out in the hallway. Even if they had, they would certainly have felt that no one in the house could play any role in this epic battle, for such was the pride of both.

Peter flew back toward the ceiling to build speed for another charge, certain that Hook was now quite helpless without a weapon, but as Peter flew toward him, Hook suddenly snatched Wendy from the bed and held her thin body so that she and her long white nightdress hung in front of him, his handless right arm supporting her by wrapping around and pressing against her throat.

"Have you **looked** at your Wendy, Pan?" Hook taunted, angling Wendy's body so that it protected him from Peter's knife. He would drag the girl with him as he snuck from the house, if necessary, but first he could not resist taunting Pan, for Hook was as vulnerable to such prideful displays as Peter himself was.

"Have you not noticed how **limp** she is?" Hook used his left hand to lift one of Wendy's arms, and then released it abruptly so that it fell slack against her body. "How **pale**?" And Hook stroked his fingers along Wendy's bloodless cheek.

"Don't you touch her!" screamed Peter, watching with horror, uncertain how to kill Hook without injuring Wendy. Why was she not moving? Surely she could not sleep through this! Why was she not fighting? What was wrong with Wendy?

"But **Pan**!" smiled Hook. "The **lady** does not seem to mind." And, still watching Peter with gloating eyes, Hook pressed his lips to Wendy's.

Infuriated, Peter bellowed as he flew toward the pirate with all of his strength. Hook held Wendy before him even more securely, backing toward the door as Peter set upon him. Knowing that he could not use his knife lest he cut Wendy, Peter instead struck Hook as hard as he could upon the head, with the same candlestick he had thrown at the "doctor" months before.

Hook and Wendy collapsed to the ground simultaneously, blood seeping from Hook's head as he lay clearly unconscious or dead. Ignoring the no-longer-dangerous pirate, Peter dropped his knife to the floor and used both arms to carefully lift Wendy and pull her away from Hook.

Peter knelt beside her and touched her face with tentative fingers. "Wendy?" he cried in confusion and fear. "Wendy, what is wrong?" But Wendy did not answer him, and tears gathered in his eyes. Though he did not precisely remember when Tink had nearly died in Neverland, he did know that the stillness upon Wendy's face was terrible and frightening.

Remembering the stories of Snow White and Cinderella, Peter quickly covered Wendy's lips with his own, putting all of his hopes and dreams and feelings into this one kiss, certain that this must work, because it had always worked in Wendy's stories. But when he lifted his head to look down at her once more, she lay just as still and lifeless as she had before. The tears in Peter's eyes began to fall.

As Peter knelt by Wendy and stroked her hair and spoke to her in urgent tones, all of his attention focused intently upon the dying girl, Hook had wakened behind him, for he had been only stunned by Peter's blow.

Taking Peter's knife from where the boy had dropped it upon the rug and slowly, silently coming to his feet, Hook walked up behind the distracted boy, the knife raising for a killing blow to Peter's neck.

But then there sounded into the night a loud sound. A sound which both Peter and Hook turned to investigate. But Hook fell almost immediately to the ground, blood now streaming from his heart to stain his absurdly fashionable waistcoat as the pirate breathed his last, his dying eyes wide in disbelief.

For there in the bedroom doorway stood Miss Millicent Tilney in her high-necked nightdress, her long auburn hair streaming wildly about her shoulders, and Hook's smoking revolver still clutched in her extended hand.


	16. It Works in Stories

Silence filled the room quite as completely as the firing of the revolver had done. The occupants of Wendy's bedchamber were momentarily frozen, as if in tableau.

The gun fell from Aunt Millicent's hand with a clatter, her arm still extended as if she were frozen in place. Then, with a halting step forward, still staring in horror at the dead, unblinking eyes of Captain Hook, she said softly, "A noise woke me." She looked around her as if suddenly emerging from a dream. "I hid in the doorway," she murmured, as if feeling some deep need to explain herself. "I ... I killed a man!"

For, indeed, when faced with danger, Aunt Millicent had found bravery in her heart which she had previously considered impossible, and had boldly faced a pirate without even realizing she had done so. At this moment, however, she could think only of the horror of what she had done.

She walked slowly forward as if compelled, staring fixedly at Captain Hook. As she drew near in the dim lamplight, she gasped, "It is Dr. Carew!" glancing around the room in disbelief, looking for some explanation that would erase all of this sudden and incomprehensible whirl of strangeness. With his long curling hair, Captain Hook of course looked quite different from the elegantly brilliantined gentleman who had so frequently conversed with her over mutton cutlets at luncheon, but there was no mistaking the features of his face, which she had so often admired in her soft, romantic heart.

But Peter paid the older lady no attention whatsoever. Captain Hook was no longer an issue, and so his only concern was for Wendy, who did not appear to be moving even so much as to breathe. "Wendy!" he sobbed. "Please don't leave me! Please don't die!" His tears dripped down to land upon Wendy's peaceful face, wetting her lashes with the moisture from his own eyes.

Gathering Wendy into his arms, Peter pressed her to him as if attempting to pass his own strength and warmth directly into her body. Her arms dangled from where he held her, and her head rolled heavily backward until Peter pressed it firmly against his own bare shoulder. "Wendy!" he cried, rocking her in some instinctive desire to comfort both her and himself. "Wendy!" The skin of her face was cool against his neck. All traces of her fever had departed. She did not move.

Aunt Millicent seemed to come to herself suddenly, realizing that her niece lay upon the floor, held by the mysteriously returned beggar boy Peter, who was now scantily and improbably dressed in nothing but leaves and vines. This all seemed quite an inexplicable development, and quite improper as well.

It might be noted that Aunt Millicent oddly seemed to be at that moment considerably more concerned about the impropriety of her niece's embrace with a scantily-clad young man in her bedchamber than she was about the dead gentleman whose eyes now stared at some faraway place no living person has ever seen. But, in that elegant lady's defense, the problem of a dead gentleman on the floor was considerably outside her sphere of understanding, and so she focused on that which she could understand.

"Unhand my niece, young man!" demanded Aunt Millicent numbly. "She is not even properly clothed! Nor are you!"

"Clothes?" shouted Peter. "Clothes? Wendy is dead! And you care about clothes!" Cradling Wendy's head close to him, Peter continued to weep, and continued to rock.

"Dead?" Aunt Millicent felt suddenly as if it were she who had been killed. Her body felt quite leaden, as if all meaning for life had left her in one horrible moment. Yes, Dr. Woodhouse had warned her of this eventuality, but to have it occur so unexpectedly soon! For the beautiful Wendy who had been once so filled with life ... for her beloved niece to be gone ... it was simply unimaginable. The young lady had been the center of her life for so long now that her absence felt like the absence of Aunt Millicent's own heart. Guilt and grief flooded her in painful waves.

Pressing another desperate, tear-flavored kiss to Wendy's lips -- _perhaps it takes more than one to work_ \-- Peter whimpered, "It works in your stories, Wendy! Why won't you wake up? It works in your stories!" He pressed another kiss to her lips, and another, and another, convinced that Wendy's stories were true, convinced that he could save her just as so many princes had saved so many ladies in the tales Wendy had told him, for Peter did not understand that London was not a realm of stories as Neverland was.

Peter looked up at Aunt Millicent in grief and betrayal. Wendy would not wake up, and the world was a very very **wrong** place to allow such a horrible thing to happen. But as he looked up at the older lady who stood nearby with her hand pressed to her trembling mouth, Peter felt something against the side of his neck which was wet with tears.

He felt a breath. A breath against his neck. Wendy's breath.

"It worked!" he cried, pressing several kisses to Wendy's mouth as if to ensure that she continue breathing. Now, in truth, it would be difficult to say whether Peter's kisses did truly awaken Wendy as he believed, or whether Wendy had been breathing softly throughout the entirety of his lamentations and he simply had not noticed. But Peter's belief was the most true explanation from the perspective of the heart, and so let us believe as he does.

Wendy was once again saved by Peter's kiss.

She still did not move, however, and lay very cold and still. Her whisper-soft breath against Peter's neck had been barely perceptible.

"She is alive," he told Aunt Millicent, who breathed a most unladylike sob of relief, which sounded rather like a most inelegant hiccup. "But something is wrong with her. Hook said he did something to her!"

"She has been very ill," explained Aunt Millicent, her expression still deeply sad as she stepped nearer and knelt artlessly in her nightdress beside Wendy and Peter upon the rug.

"Ill?" asked Peter in confusion. "She told me so, before, but what is it?"

"She ... does not have long to live," the older lady explained gently, fighting tears.

But Peter shook his head stubbornly. "No!" he insisted. "I will save her! My kiss will save her!" Peter shifted Wendy in his arms so that he could see her face more clearly. "I will save you, Wendy. I will. I promise."

Aunt Millicent gently put her hand upon the young boy's bare arm, explaining with obvious sorrow and compassion for the boy's obvious distress, "There is nothing we can do for her now. The doctor has said so."

Peter gazed down into Wendy's pale, peaceful face, unable to even see her chest rising with her meager breaths. He tried to think, but his thoughts kept getting muddled. He thought of Hook's taunt on that subject, and his face set in determined lines. He **would** think! He **would**!

And, suddenly, inspiration!

"I have an idea," he said to the older lady who knelt beside him. "I think I can save her, but I have to take her away right now, before she ... while she ... it needs to be right now."

"But ... where would you take her? And what would you do to her? I ... simply cannot permit this. I am sorry, but ... she is my responsibility, and I cannot fail her again." Aunt Millicent's tears were beginning to fall, though she seemed not even to notice them as they dropped into the neck of her nightdress and upon the waves of her loose auburn hair.

"But I think I can save her!" Peter objected desperately. "If I take her now, I think Neverland can save her! But we must go now! It might not work if she dies! I must go now!"

Aunt Millicent hesitated, torn most terribly between the advice of her head and her heart. Her head insisted that allowing a leaf-clad boy to abscond with her near-dead niece in the darkest of night would be not only the greatest of improprieties but also a disservice to the trust Wendy's parents had placed in her when they'd given their daughter into her care, that it might be perhaps even worse than the horrible error she had committed in trusting Wendy's health to Dr. Carew's care.

Aunt Millicent's heart, however, said that her very dearly beloved niece was dying, and that if there was some small chance that Peter could save her, then she should let him try. He **had** saved the girl before. And he was, after all, the one Wendy's kiss belonged to, and one could not underestimate the significance of that fact.

Not accustomed to listening to her heart, and feeling still some bruising from the last time she had done so in entrusting her feelings to Dr. Carew, Aunt Millicent struggled for a long moment, but even she realized there was little time to lose. Wendy looked quite nearly dead already, and so if she were to give her charge into the care of this Peter Pan, Aunt Millicent would need to do so now.

 _Perhaps everything is possible still, in the right light, with the right gentleman,_ she thought to herself once more, her lifetime's worth of dreams and hopes and wishes brushing thick around her like spirits in the darkened bedchamber.

"Go!" she finally cried, her eyes shining with even more tears which slid down her cheeks in glistening streams. And Aunt Millicent looked quite young in that moment, as if some girlhood hope had returned to her heart, even as she wept for her failure to protect such a precious charge. "Go! Save her, and keep her safe, as I have not been able to do."

But Peter shook his head a moment, insisting, "This was Hook's doing, not yours." Aunt Millicent had not the slightest idea of who "Hook" might be, but this was not a time to ask questions. She understood that the boy was saying that she was not to blame for her niece's endangerment ... and perhaps one day she would come to believe what he said. Perhaps she would one day forgive herself for her own role in Wendy's terrible illness. But that day would not be this day.

And though Aunt Millicent would not have guessed so in that moment, that day of relief and forgiveness would come in the future partly through the support and caring given to her by a different doctor entirely, and one far more trustworthy, for the kind and merry Dr. Woodhouse was of an appropriate age and was not, in fact, a pirate in disguise, which was a considerable point in his favor.

"Go," Aunt Millicent said softly to the strange leaf-clad boy she barely knew, the boy who had somehow brought hope once more to her heart. "Save her if you can."

And so Peter stood somewhat awkwardly, holding Wendy's body in his arms. Though she was some years older than he was now, she had become so frail and thin that her weight was inconsequential. The only difficulty presented by her greater age was that she was rather taller than would have been easiest for Peter to carry.

But Peter was determined, and so he held Wendy to his bare chest and walked to the open window. He glanced back only once, and did not throw Hook's motionless body even the barest glance. Instead, he smiled to Aunt Millicent and said, for perhaps the first time in his young existence, " _Thank you_."

And then, without waiting for a response, Peter flew from the window with Wendy in his arms, leaving Aunt Millicent to run to the window in awestruck wonder. She stood framed in the window, where a single perfect shining acorn sat upon the sill, as she watched the skies into which Wendy and Peter had disappeared, and thought with blossoming hope in her heart, _A boy who can fly ... perhaps he can save her after all._


	17. The Story and the Storyteller

And so Peter and Wendy flew into the air, away from all things ugly and ordinary. Away from tapestried pillows and never-ending piano lessons. Away from corsets pulled tightly for special occasions and mutton cutlets for luncheon. Away from Oxford Street and Whitechapel and workhouses. Away from pink and white wallpaper in hyacinth designs with pomegranates. Away from St. John's Wood and Kensington and Regent's Park and Bloomsbury. Away from glass cases filled with pinned butterflies. Away from polite small talk with Miss Elizabeth Crawford and her elegant mother. Away from Gibson Girl hairstyles and fashionable clothes. Away from motor cars that frightened the horses. Away from Mrs. Eliot and her daughter who did not need help with her embroidery. Away from parties with tea and punch and cakes of which a proper young lady could not partake lest she appear indelicate. Away from well-dressed people who pretended not to notice young men starving upon the sidewalk. Away from worrying what the neighbors should think. Away from the niceties of table manners. Away from the proper things to say and the proper way to live and the proper thoughts to think and the proper ways to do absolutely everything.

Peter held Wendy's body close to him as he flew, her hair streaming behind them in waves that gleamed silver as water in the moonlight.

And as they flew, as they flew further from all they left behind, and flew closer to Neverland, Peter felt Wendy's skin grow warmer, her breath stronger and more even. She still had not moved, but her chest now visibly rose and fell with each breath, and this was quite enough to bring a relieved smile to Peter's face. He flew fast as ever he could, sure that his idea had been right, and that Wendy could be saved by Neverland.

What Peter did not realize, of course, was that it was not precisely Neverland which was bringing Wendy back toward health. In her own world, Wendy was only a storyteller -- a magical and talented storyteller, to be sure, but still only a storyteller. As they neared Neverland, the land peopled by the characters in Wendy's stories, the land carved and shaped by her own thoughts and dreams, Wendy ceased gradually to become merely a storyteller, and became also a part of her own story.

And so as Peter flew onward toward Neverland, Wendy's flesh bloomed, so that her body was no longer so sharply boned in his arms as it had been when they had started their journey.

And as their flight continued, Wendy's body grew smaller, shorter, her face more rounded, and faint freckles reappeared upon her nose and cheekbones.

It was as they approached Neverland upon the horizon, the sun casting the clouds in shades of pink and yellow, that Wendy began to stir in Peter's arms. Blinking her clear blue eyes in confusion, Wendy asked, "What happened, Peter?" and then turned her head to see Neverland below them in all its beauty.

Peter landed on the very highest peak of Neverland's highest mountain, so that they could see the Neverland stretching around them on all sides. Setting Wendy upon her feet, Peter was pleased to see that she stood strong and healthy under her own power.

"Why am I back in the Neverland?" Wendy asked, looking about her with dazed eyes.

"Look at your feet, Wendy," Peter replied in what seemed to be not an answer to her question. But when Wendy looked down at her feet, she saw her once-ankle-length nightdress pooling upon the ground around her. Pulling her arms up, she saw that her sleeves too had become impossibly long and her embroidered pouch now hung rather loosely upon her wrist.

"What has happened to me?" Wendy's voice now sounded frightened.

Pushing up one of her sleeves, Peter took her hand in his and looked into her anxious blue eyes. This alone seemed to comfort her some small amount, and so Peter then spoke. "You were ... you called it 'ill'," Peter tried to explain. "I was afraid you would die. So I brought you back, and now you are well again!"

Wendy shook her head in complete befuddlement. "But ... how...?"

Peter sat down, pulling her down to sit cross-legged beside him. "Well, I heard Hook talking." He thought about telling her the story of Hook's second-time death, but then decided that it could wait until another time. "He said that you healed him and you healed me, with your stories. And he said you healed the Neverland. So I thought if I brought you here, maybe it would heal you, too. And it worked!" And then Peter grinned, impressed with his own cleverness.

Looking down at her smaller hands and feet with wonder, Wendy insisted, "But why am I smaller?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. But it isn't bad, right? You look like you did when you were here before." He seemed entirely unconcerned by this change, just as he had been unconcerned by the changes in the Neverland. It simply was not in Peter Pan's nature to fret over such trivialities.

Wendy, however, still considerably influenced by the "real" world which required logic and reason to answer all questions, puzzled over the entire situation at some length.

What she did not realize, of course, was that such questions cannot be answered by logic and reason. The Neverland is a place of imagination rather than logic. And so, since in her stories and in her imagination Wendy was not ill ... she therefore was not ill in the Neverland. And since in her stories Wendy had not aged ... she therefore was still a child in the Neverland.

When she climbed within the world of her own story, when she became a part of her own tale instead of only its storyteller, Wendy's being had ceased to follow the logical rules she thought she understood. She would eventually forget such concerns, of course, for the Neverland does nothing so well as distract the childhood mind. But some small remnant of adulthood lingered in Wendy's mind, even if only for a moment.

And then it was gone.

And Wendy Darling laughed.

* * *

Some who believe only in facts and figures might say that Wendy Darling died that tragic evening in her bedchamber, and that imagining her departure to some finer place is but an effort to comfort those who grieve for her loss.

But those who see not only with their heads but also with their hearts know the truth of it.

Aunt Millicent knew the truth. Peter and Wendy had helped her to learn to see with her heart, and she learned to share that knowledge with others. When he stayed on after the holidays to live at home, instead of returning to boarding school, Slightly found her quite a changed woman, and a much warmer and happier mother. Dr. Woodhouse, comforting her in her grief at the loss of her niece, found her a much more kind and generous woman than would previously have been the case.

The entire brood of Darling boys knew the truth of it. Nibs, in particular, stood at the nursery window one evening and looked out at the night sky and wished them well, though there was a small lump in his throat that had once been his feelings for the girl who was not truly his sister.

And, if truth be known, Mary and George Darling in some part of their hearts did know the truth, as well. Though they grieved for their daughter's loss, they also wished her all happiness, choosing to believe that Peter had succeeded in saving her life as Aunt Millicent seemed convinced that he had done.

Those who had loved Wendy chose to think of her as happy and healthy in some wonderful place filled with everything she had ever imagined.

And they were right.

* * *

"Peter?" Wendy smiled her most lovely smile at him. "I have a Christmas gift for you, Peter." And she pulled the silver thimble from the embroidered pouch suspended from her wrist.

Peter held out his hand, and she set the engraved thimble upon his rather dirty palm. And they smiled at one another.

"I brought you an acorn," explained Peter, "but I think I left it behind in your bedchamber. It was a particularly handsome acorn."

"Oh, Peter, do not worry." Wendy took his free hand in hers and looked out at the wonderful Neverland that stretched in all directions, as far as the eye could see. "You have given me so very much more."

* * *

Having entered her own story, though she did not know she had done so, Wendy was in a rather unique situation. She still contained a great many stories within her heart, perhaps -- in fact -- an infinite number, for her talent as a storyteller was great.

And so Wendy's heart was filled with ever so many stories that she quite happily entertained Peter, the Indians, the Lost Boys who occasionally appeared in the jungle wide-eyed and confused, and even sometimes the pirates, during periods when she was taken prisoner on the Jolly Roger, which did happen from time to time. Red Maggie became rather fond of taunting Peter by kidnapping Wendy as often as possible.

And if Wendy upon occasion told tales of Captain James Hook, it certainly could not mean that the pirate himself might someday return to the Neverland, or so Wendy innocently believed. For it is remarkably easy to forget lessons even once they have been learnt. Particularly in Neverland, which is so endlessly diverting.

But as she told her stories, Wendy caused the Neverland to change ever so slightly, here and there, in an infinitely delightful number of ways. New rivers carved their ways through the jungle, elephants appeared to stampede in herds and then mysteriously went away again, trolls took up residence in one of the caves, for a time the Indians vanished and a tribe of African warriors who stood on one leg took their place, pink flamingoes flew sometimes over the lagoons, and any number of other thrilling changes occurred.

And each time a change occurred, Wendy and Peter and the other residents of Neverland simply accepted it and forgot that things had ever been any different. They enjoyed each day and each adventure and did not worry about such grown-up concerns as logic and reason.

For though Peter had indeed long been Neverland's undisputed king, holding sway over even the weather, it was also true that Wendy was the Neverland's hitherto secret queen, holding in her heart the very fabric and existence of the place which had been created from her stories.

With Wendy there to tell stories, Neverland would indeed go on forever, ever renewed, ever fed by her imagination, ever growing and changing in marvelous ways.

And because they were ever children in Wendy's stories, neither Peter nor Wendy ever aged, but instead stayed always as they had been when they first met, hovering on the edge of something more than childhood, but still retaining childhood's magic. They kissed many first kisses, always forgetting after a time that they had kissed before, and so each kiss was precious and new and surprising. Each kiss was wondrous and magical and **first**.

And so Peter and Wendy were perhaps the luckiest children who ever have been, for they lived first love for all eternity, never knowing that it could grow familiar and common.

For indeed Peter and Wendy never grew up and never grew old, but stayed together always in Neverland, enjoying joys that other children can only dream.

All children grow up, after all.

Except two.

**\- The End -**

**Author's Note:**

> The song Wendy sings was written in 1902, with lyrics by Lawrence Hope and music by Amy Woodforde-Finden.


End file.
